All Life is like this Afteroon

All life is like this afternoon

on your young sandy face

the weight of the stars

the body tasting like snow

a slipcover of communication

fleeting through the blue geography

Twilight paintings

firecracker mysteries

calm whole hurricanes

sandwiched within 

the intricacies of the day

before you knew it

even existed.

As Long as Russell Edson Lives

I am fine
but the moment
he is dead
I become
too hard to
figure out
my growing

room
labors like
tiny inventions
glancing
at each other

locked in the deciding

who came first

who came last

and who came at all.

Post Title

There was an internal destiny

the waterlogged nasturtiums missed it.

Like the ferns jutting from a moth's nose

Sal starred from his bed for a long time.

He walked out of his hotel room

and down the hall to the ice machine.

There he met a girl who smelled like kindness.

It was later that evening I was born.

I know I owe a lot of people 

looking for a cold drink

or who hear the rumbling of ice

now that the world is melting

and we are fleeing its shorelines.

I know. I pulled my car over, stopped,

for a moment to look back in hope 
that this extinction 
might give birth to something.

Concave Orange Peel

The hammering of a flicker

ties us to one another.

And together the old sense comes round

like an approval or buttons.

Froms sleep the old man gloves the air.

Well, don't look.

Just sip over the universe

of an old fashioned cocktail 

mostly beautiful

I want an intermission

The brute ankles of the problem

sometimes weave

sometimes glimmer

sometimes shine

from a lilac loss

raincoat, chimney or runnel.

The bay touches a chamber of the heart

Walking around the market before it opens

may repair the wildflowers before the rain

switch something in the experiment

use a forklift immediately

drain off this sunny, sunny toaster

looking natural before the gardens.

The Truth About the Lies

The mustard end of my cigarette

collapsed the way a building collapses.

Tragedy at some point always happens,

especially to garage bands. 

Today, at the mailbox

a letter arrived. It read,

"I don't even know what to say." 

Neither did I.

And that was the way 

the poem ended.

Poem

 

If our mouths go on

in tiny mouse-like kisses

the air does not tell

a friend, nor does it

take a breath

let it out that I was

clumsy, you, awkward.

If I suddenly say flower

the rain does not write the poem,

"droplets".

Does not wave, 

or think dark cloudy thoughts.

But when I find out who you are.

What but spring

suddenly under honest trees

knocks at my door

and asks to be let in.

From the Book of Questions

Will I turn up a fish after I am drowned in the ocean?

Who really believes we are made up of bones?

Why did my parent put me into a room of my own?

When I dream, who am I?

When I sleep, do I sleep in another's dream?

What was the name of the horseshoe crab before horses?

Why do children bring their rocks into the house thinking they are snails?

When I am sad, why doesn't the earth fill with hellos?

Will I finally be able to hold my kidneys?

How much longer will people forget the truth?  

Don't they know it will flower soon?

What has there to be completely removed before there is spring?

Do I really understand the existence of stars?

Is the firing squad ready for the maker of guns?

Why did someone out me of what they saw die?

Why does the blue come off the blueberry when you rub them?

What happens when the tiniest particle is loved?