Archive for ‘Prose’

October 1, 2015

contrived conventions

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

September 30, 2015

Natural Solitude

on an island of my own
staring straight into the sun
no fears are accounted for
with this nature i am one

September 29, 2015

Autumn Symphony

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.

September 28, 2015

Red Wing on Sunday

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.

September 24, 2015

On campus in a basement…

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.

September 23, 2015

whether weather

maybe rain
maybe sun,
maybe IDK
another day

September 21, 2015

september sleep

hard sleep in my eyes
queues the end credits

waking to an apartment
gathering dusted clutter

days seem growing longer
as light slips slow away

the cold goes to my bones
crawling in, just deeper

September 20, 2015

Inquiry Related Lament


your cellphone died…


when’s the funeral?


could you go to sleep
without tucking

your social media accounts in?


how many selfies
would be unhealthy?


why does there
always have to be something
on my mind?

Inside fixed,
connected with who,
what, why, and when…


when in real life will I see you again?
when in IRL will I see you again?


Sometimes it’s better to listen to the wind.

September 19, 2015

applefest casualty

Those trees of the backyard
Through a naked window
kicked at my eyes while a truck drove
busy and loud in my skull.

The white beer tent last night,
with its sugary high notes
and crisply set carbonation
caused splintered synapse today.

And those leaves were changing outside,
and Dirty Jobs was on the set
and life was passing by momentarily
as butter rested malleable on a knife’s edge,

and in the dish, on toast, on pancakes;
between a paper, and conversation
about how this generation doesn’t get it
from another which heard the same …

Now, yesterday’s ideology was stale as the open chips,
and contrived but real and there.

My kindergarten teacher was my bartender,
her pupils were standing years apart
and side-by-side amongst the crowd
as a cover band played Queen
and last week’s hit single.

A flea market set up where we played as kids,
and mom had to go to the fest grounds
to help the church in bright light fashion.

Text messages came through
as I pulled the rubber band
off of bold print fragile paper.

The headline spoke of what was outside:
the backyard, again, window earlier today
—I almost threw up—
remember new years day?
and the champagne and its pain?

On the set was tanning leather—
the wet kind, grey and grotesque;

and in that flowery prose
was a half-baked sentence
which balked at this fleeting instance
of happening nature.

He said just take these pills
and don’t mind the stale smoke smell
of that crumpled shirt at your feet,

an hour later my head
became straight,
I dressed for the game,
and for the weather, and for the
cold fall to come.

It was a morning of remembrance
and a splitting headache,
thoughts of sweet beer and bubbles.

We were talking sorts in the dark,
in the night rain,
near tents and lights
and sound.

Many questions now…
There were no awards for 3rd place
in the poker tournament…

We have the hardest time understanding
that we don’t understand.

It exists because you hear it,
or you hear it because it exists.

I remember feeding the horse,
and then eating food with my hands…

As a loading television allowed for novel thought.

September 17, 2015

Morning Light

An occurrence of light
sparking at sepia clouds,

this September storm was
dismantling a short night;

crashing, breaking, flashing,
calling all to bolt upright–

that proof was so strong,
becoming our new day.


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