Originally, A Verb

In repeating the where of words...as
any attic in pajamas or a helmet might
think it's doing...locked in a heated
argument on a penthouse elevator going
up...blinded by the sudden brightness
of a river dividing...or wondering who
would take the time to name such a street ...where complete strangers 
kiss each other on the cheek...miles less than visibility...in a vague 
disguise or what a myth might be...we try sailing around the nicks & 
scarps of misfortune...or in the murky green underwater currents before 
a storm...& then there's the war ...never confined to the pale murmur 
of elegies...or the evening news of untruths ...knowing the 
unimaginable could be delivered in a messager's pouch...but still 
untranslatable...lest it becomes the sea...or aisle seats in the front 
row ...so we recline in our diamond by the dump...in a city as large as 
this one never touching it nowhere...appeases the windward finally...or 
so the story goes.


"With Moving Figures" Sonnet

Roadkill stray dog feat on. The
sharp distinction of solitary trees. 
Pencil shavings. Mistakes like paper
cuts. Whistling like a teapot at the
railway crossing. Coffee's aroma. 
Freshly mowed grass. A sentence that
begins with "Exhibit A". Breath on a
windshield. A voice apologizing for
any technical difficulties. Cruise
missiles. Yellow times two. The awning
a pet shop. A traffic cop's white glove. 
I wave because she thinks I should. At
least shut up. Homing pigeons. That
faint silver lining. Reasons to cringe. 
A street of frozen traffic. Idle
windmills. Manikins that all look
alike. Souls that long to be driftwood. 
Of pity or adoration. Strolling through an evening where blue knows 
everybody. 
Then too, green could mean go. 


Dreaming In A Bowtie

Things fall of their own weightlessness.

Eons of surrender. Driving downhill in
red with the radio loud. The second warm day turning green. Feathers 
crowded with crows. High corn dense as a broom. One sweepstakes prize-
winner. Two steps redder. Wind on the breast of desire. 
To know how the snake's mind slithers...

a tangle of kids bicycles
a stack of old 8x10 glossies

Evening fog settling like fine gauze.
Clouds sky-long without an erection.

Blue moons that turn into hail.
To cough coal mines so much it hurts.

a thorn in her breath. I feel it, I
say, as if blindness were two hands.
So touch or be touched-
no telling the difference.

Then maybe later, we could pretend
to be dawn slowly lightening.


At Last The Air So Steep

Let's suppose
I was the cosmonaut
in a rocket to noon
as bronze as a sunset
or blind as a bullet
I'd listen for the
cling in a chainlink fence
wearing real snakeshy
or dragonflies in the reeds
out of radio range
while laughing in fluent Spanish
I might mistake myself
for the future
or heart of rain
drying on the roof
where arms fail
to hug each other
or slightly ajar
then applying the car's
brakes into a curve
where nobody was looking
I wonder which of us
died first or could
we be just one of the
billions of personal stories
waiting for the wind
to turn the page. 


Ratio Or Volume

While the crowd
of spectators surge forward
to see what happened,
I try walking way left,
alarmingly close to
the oncoming cars.

But it's worth it. This
angle affords a better view
of giddy & uproarious.
The snow flakes seem
larger too from here.
They say no two flakes
are alike. But who took
the time to check.

Really? Is that the surprise ending?
I thought even if
the story runs out it goes
on & is roughly calculated
to where dialog
comes out to be a
seventeen-mile scenic drive.