Skylarking

The morning abacus of rain on a wire
The wren watching it
Aches with a small intelligence
Which makes its wings dear to those who love the vulnerable
Jack-in-the-box of consciousness
In all its animal forms
One drop sliding down into another
In all its siren forms
As a frog eating a bubble of a smaller frog
Not yet born, maybe within a gelatin
Things get carved as gods
Things get starved
The abacus slides on
As numbers try to catch their siblings
On the arrowed line
The headlights of eggy cars slice through this our foggy scene
The mind is opened as the late century’s cans are opened
Clumsily, by hand
Commuters off to work
Starve on
Don’t think about existing
As, Or, For
The energy in a paper clip
Dropped on the sidewalk
Waits its musical coils of cheap metal
Clef of the organized thoughts
Slapping the jive
Paragraphs like butterflies
Chaos goes through a moth confused that it’s a butterfly
Oh Dear God, Dear Social Media
It’s okay to let a thought just die
Even the bluest ones
Those militant skies
Atoms are goofing off inside molecules
Physics tells them to behave
Reins them in like a mother
But it’s no use crying
That sparrow comes out of a cinematic fog right at your face
It couldn’t be any funnier if it was a pub’s dart
A pop tart
But evolution changes its mind at the last moment
And we are here, humming our inability to fly
Right this moment
Grounded
Mofo
It’s cold out there
Ima go outside
Right now and
Pity every
goddamn bird

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[bob]

bob has a nightmare thingamajig
he doesn’t know what to do with it
maybe open nightmares
the crows all caw at bob
they have never seen
anything so strange

bob rolls through falling snow
lonely robot
counting crows
singing digits of pi
he has no home
like numbers

the asphalt absorbs the quiet
of new snow, new song
bob bobs along
a program tells bob
that Counting Crows is a band
so bob is excited

He didn’t know he was a band

Claustrophobia

To what to be close? To white tiny
hairs on the ears of night?
To hold such office
at the darkest window
of the tallest office blight?
To syncope, sliding like a cloth
off the shoulder of a planet?
To round of circle, to blue
of sty? To oryx, to Arabella,
prefix, suffix of thought
and feeling, evolution’s
dear uncertainty,
delicate cosmic thing
of a robin’s egg
cupped in child palm?
To the rigging
in which it all lives,
to the marble faun
at whose feet a crush
of styrofoam cup?
To his archaic street,
satyr’s sense of smile,
an author of white stone.
To slickness of soap,
to barren coin
of monster emperor,
to homeyness, homelessness,
none the better
for any difference
is how shelter
managed to conceive
itself? To what
to hearken, to hold,
to burrow, to invade,
to throw to appetite,
to mourn, to forget,
to be, without knowing
one is? To telescope
shut in the end,
to hold the infinitive
sense close
as the apple
reaching out
from the tree’s
core, a score,
somehow, to
her, to
Eve.

My Cave Embarrassment

I like to be born and I like to bloviate.
Yadda yadda. There is a cave
with a tiny Plato inside it.
And I go there every day. I find the dark
subterranean roses. And I bathe them.
I use the old tub I was born in.
It is battered and makes a horrible sound
when I drag it across the cave floor.
My cave’s neighbors think that is me
clearing my throat every morning. What a nightmare!
But it is impossible to explain. So the neighbors
in the next cave own my heart unlawfully.