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
a week in, my radio becomes desperate,
it needs money–needs, it needs me to
do my part. i usually just listen and
i don’t need to do anything. i sit on
the floor for stretches, smelling the bacon,
as the toast goes in. a two car crash doesn’t
look good, a bicyclist was involved,
near Ham Lake, it sounded tragic.
now they want to give me something.
i want to win, the odds go up, the moment
is exciting, this is important, become
a member! yesterday, in class, the call
came in, i was busy. i knew what it
was all about. again, hang out on twitter,
yesterday is gone, this prize is yours, now,
just donate. don’t they get money from
the government as a public entity?
they don’t discuss this. member drives
always kill me because i write language
for free, i don’t ask for money, it’s a public
service too, it’s beautiful. this channel makes
me want to start my own member drive,
makes me want to change the station.
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.
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.
We cut south as rain ran
off a battered roof in a gale,
marked with hard luck’s feel
we chose to quick vacate
the close crowded city.
Along cornfields & heavy trucks,
we drove into Red Wing proper–
dining at the St. James Hotel.
That what was left behind
was not as important
as what was brought with me.
Sitting in a basement classroom—
the best a big ten university could offer,
listening to words of power,
details revealed. This conversation happened
a day or so before, made new now by
a faux Foucault. Then someone subjectively said,
“… It was merely objective to be like this…”
And I still don’t enjoy groups of people
or the idea that we are all learning
in relation to the concept of doubling.
The thought is not the same. This lack
of accountability comes cleverly masked.
Noticing errors on the Powerpoint slides,
a man outside in gray moving a door,
and this farce called academia expressed.
Some pretend to be actual Philosophers,
I think I’ll pretend to be Jesus: I forgive them.