Poem of his past

Could have killed him it doesn't

fit into a pocket therefore

it's unstealable and why

Doe the animal define itself

or decide

to leave behind only an image, what

did her house smell like?

Broken on the floor of a place

falling neatly behind the word

home to an unwholesome

Existential species catching people

In its teeth.

Such a strange

cycle such

a strange world we rely

on reliance and somehow

things still

Thrive; I guess

it's so

perfect it doesn't

Have to be

Flawless.

The Fox That Made Me

When I saw the obviously crazy

Fox slice across the only

Road into town three times

And then flicker gray and brown

Down the path to my past I

Felt like a goddamn poet,

For real.

No one else felt his footprints

Echo across the shattered

Cave of their soul.

He was looking for me

And he found her instead.

I am from the edge of static breathing
Its own life through the radio and
From the countless poems that bloom
And I wish to the planets I
Had written them.

The atlas of my skin
Is diverse and untraveled,
Even to me.

If you have never seen
The virgin sun’s secrets
Shattered by solitude
And mountain peaks or never
Counted the lines on a wave
Reaching the shore finally I
Could learn from you.

As Seen From Above

When I watch her moving
Through the limp Sunday air I
Wonder is this what I have
To look forward to?

I know she sees me I
Know she hates me and
I can’t blame her.

She should not be allowed
To move freely through the midnight
Shadows and long triangles of light.

I cannot believe what
I will be it’s
Too much and I
Turn away.

I wish she could borrow
My eyes.
Maybe that would change something.

the world has mute edges

swimming in the blue sky

in the white sunlight of

january

it’s my soul that’s breaking

not my heart

the world climbs into

the trunk of an 89 pontiac and

heads for the freeway

the cross-stitched haze

of gray tree limbs and

evergreens whisper about

dry trails and the pound of bare feet

the broken breath of the sky

reminds the grass of summertime

what I’d give to peel away

looking on with no

fear shame or past

turning to the sun

knowing it’s the same

i know some things about

poetry and

fir trees and

maybe a little more

maybe that’s why

i know it never started I

know I never was and

i know it keeps on moving.

101st post!!

What could we be for

Only a minute what

Could we learn about ourselves and

Our passions if we

Forgot ourselves and our

Plagiarisms if we

Remember that awe of

Childhood being

More than we thought?

What do we know about

This and that and

Moving through one

To the other like only the

Best things can?

Jet Trails

What does it mean when

An old man’s walls begin

To leak what they’ve seen and they

Swear it’s true,

Claim that’s America,

The unlit cigarette and peeling wallpaper

Coming and going but staying, regardless?

And what does it mean when the same man

Watched the planes trail through the sky,

Over the mosaics of cities and veins of freeways,

Wonders aloud how much of a strain it would be

For him to out-rationalize himself,

And take to the air that way?

The comings and goings of these steel birds

Reflected by oceans struck waveless in contempt

For the human animal,

In anger that they’d crack these boundaries.

What they call people, I can’t be sure of.