it’s 8:45 in the morning
i lie there, still,
in bed as our
cat claws the sides
of the mattress
to bare insides.
my love walks
nude in oils
and a black
loosely hung robe
and then we roll in
the painted sheets–
the day went.
again alone i lie.
it’s 8:45 in the morning
Joe, he kills it in class
with his well-formed questions,
he does—it’s true.
I wish I would have gone
to the same high school as him,
I assume he was popular,
probably played ball.
Alas, I didn’t, alas, I sit far,
far away from his dicey interactions.
Another classmate I sit in a room with—confusedly,
she uses the word “like” more times
than I ever thought understandably possible,
like, oh my fucking god,
if I hear that word once more in rapid succession
I may just leave class early unannounced.
But Joe—back to him, he is like the honey bee that stings,
he is like a one hit wonder from the mid-90s,
he also dies intellectually from his act.
It is tragic like Hamlet, not enough college to know:
let the teacher talk, this is their show.
As a peer I will admit this is fun
to watch and hear and be a part of—
(The professor’s ahem interruption of the grasshopper!)
like the Titanic sinking on film,
like an ungraceful fall on March ice,
or like a public argument growing in volume and irrelevance,
as the instructor says: we are a part of everything…
OOOOWWWWW! AAAAAAHHHHHH! Some theory…
The classroom is full of minds blown.
I enjoy these acts,
but they are painful.
Oh yes, but fun.
Education offers much.
Dear New Cadence Apparatus,
you move me with your moving;
the artistry of your performance,
to my mind, is wholly consuming.
rambunctious in the morning
ready to go as i wake
i am a coffee pot spewing
a toaster glowing orange
a radio turned to loud
causing neighbors to yell
i am a shower going hot
i am the birds chirping there.
in the morning i am awake,
alive, smiling, readying,
looking forward to the day,
what’s to come, what is;
the emotion of rebirth,
the moment all important.
i am rambunctious at the now,
because that is all i have.
we are stuck in our phones
and stuck in our beds
sipping deep on dark coffee
just somewhere between
portions of the morning
allotted fully at random
tendency of our nature
going full bloom in the room
a kitchen of classics
the radio sounds a play
in one aspect for the present
mostly charted on days
now dry from the shower
then clothes from the drawer
to steaming pot towel hold
into the french press poured
we are humans not being
without contrived conventions;
the preference, shades,
and pronouns obscure
we are humans not being
couldn’t hold occupied hands;
the mirror doesn’t stand
my selfie will last forever
couldn’t walk for milk unchecking
couldn’t live from that notification
Shrill scratches, a leaves’ song
on the fade pale of a paved road,
in the early dead of night,
where empty streets hail—
the quiet wind that blows a debris
of dried fronds to clump and to fold,
only noticed as you sliding—go,
following you along the way home.
Fall comes just as our sneakers have worn in
Our bike seats touch familiar under buttocks
Dying grass and flowers thin; bend in the wind,
Tree’s leaves affect intensely displayed colors.
Pools close and drain, with new frost to blame.
Mothers count their wandering curious young.
A yellowing sun grows faint, shadowing its loss.
Fathers light expensive brown cigars for fun.
Dogs and cats play-excited, loud and rowdy,
Leaves and debris blow thru them in the yard.
Cold holidays come nearer, passing yet again,
Each year grows tired, cold, aloof, and hard.
On destiny we wait; fleeting speed of time,
Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter yet again align.
This lonely night,
as I scrub clean the soiled dishes.
Wet hands, same the front of my day-old shirt;
dinged pale, blotched, and loose.
Nothing in its place;
corners catching everything,
dirt sticking to the floor,
as the cat meows an indecipherable slight.
All of this would be impossible if it were tried.
Still, stifling hot,
humid as the night goes on,
sits a lonely parking lot.
There is no relief, save for another extreme; Midwest seasons.
-We know, we know.
Small things noticed under skin,
this sliver- this time, sharp and razor thin.
Walking into this empty living room
the radio addresses the score loudly.
Sitting on the couch I put my feet up,
and sink in.
Oh, what a night.
Lightening danced across the sky in clouded seclusion; a million flash bulbs illuminated, ten thousand bowling ball strikes.
Cut uneven as broken glass still stuck together.
Gods must be gaming.
Cats run and hide.
Every silence a moment lapsed in hesitation for coming sound.
Alarm bells clamored loud, infrequently ringing.
This may pass before the commute.
Awoken by raindrop’s tapping,
as events plagued
pale-blue morning light
set in ruin.
There was a flood about us,
contrasted by the altitude.
St. Paul in the fall,
whilst leaves change and thin.
Whilst festivities and fairs
under tents, bearing food, creep in.
Whilst trees bend
with robust forceful wind.
A time to reflect the mess we’re within;
past and coming years, one which end and begin.
Peers and loved ones we’ve lost,
at grand experience’ cost.
Standing growing moving,
shedding one layer at a time
A tan peals and pales,
A secret is revealed.
Skin and bone become frail,
light years fast pass the snail.
A north shore lake-effect patience,
Months under sun we’ve waited.
Suffering rain snow and gale,
Minnesota weather: what it entails.
In and amongst everything;
though a singular unit, alone as one.
Walking fresh cold press coffee in hand,
scanning distant verdant lands.
On this walk towards autumn- new times and old friends,
alternatives we enact; to the ever changing plans.
Remember the voices we will never hear again.
Remember the times with loved ones we spend.
Perplexed by this simple yet inspiring life,
St. Paul in the fall feels cool, close, fast approaching, and right.