March 23, 2015
You, me; us we—forward or backward,
together we are the same.
Parts of a carnal body, whole—
built of dust, thoughts, and air;
no scar is without a measure,
no action still unmoved,
shell of human being outside,
ghost of us within.
We are compelling a kind,
eyes peer to see;
from Franklin and Nicollet to NE,
Middle America to Middle East.
Still, forward or backward, we are the same.
March 13, 2015
As early March had come in biting and the best were kept inside,
a span of two weeks had passed slowly and sleep had become elusive.
Professors watched second hands tick and gave out faux tests;
these symbolic life quizzes—it’s who makes it who matters.
Desks became confines as concentration went out open windows,
to welcome hands of mild weathered-breeze and new-season sun.
People—tired students, red-eyed lecturers, they didn’t exist;
regular situations became stimuli for a stagnant comatose: why?
No answers formed, except that three days later a person could be a week away,
anywhere—abroad, nothing to do, only to read titles and books which please.
Yet we all sat watching that clock, it moved slower despite us;
now, it would have to stay indoors and assess classrooms of empty chairs.
Scholars and administration would hopefully be in Spring air, taking it in,
with a cold beer in hand and tender sunrays on their back;
minds would exist as empty—blank slates, to pen a tale—an experience,
with no thoughts of what was left sitting behind, with not a hint of rigor.
March 6, 2015
One time you had a thought,
One time you didn’t;
The difference is:
February 23, 2015
I once met this “poet”,
He hadn’t written a single word—
It’s been years since then,
He bears the same rank and title.
February 21, 2015
A Midwestern city holds its frozen contents—
These hardened pieces go about on their own.
Uniquely conditioned to unforgiving climates;
Still those passive parts make up the whole.
February 13, 2015
with cream cheese melt;
how you entice
it is early in the morning
and I am hungry,
into my stomach
February 11, 2015
Our days can be acutely measured:
Bus schedules, warm showers, and brushed pearly teeth,
A bag full of books to read, a cigarette, and a high priced coffee—
And the texts read.
And the ones in our head.
Ticking around daily as a fine-tuned clock,
How out of the everyday ordinary it is to get lost—
January 25, 2015
Fickle love’s passing fate,
Seen a wretched cold world;
Sweet birdsong of the wind,
And a blouse lay unfurled.