Posts tagged ‘life’

May 27, 2015

New Danger: Water Balloons and Squirt Guns

Nowadays water balloons and squirt guns
are considered dangerous weapons.

Oddities which can get you tackled to the ground, cuffed,
and thrown into the back of a police cruiser.

It’s kind of funny.

I remember being younger, maybe 8 or so,
and having all-out wars with other kids
at Wildcat Landing near Brownsville, MN.

No one won, there were no casualties.

We would be throwing water balloons
and squirting each other with Super Soakers,
these dangerous weapons.

Their biggest offense was they wasted water.

To get it in the eye would sometimes start tears,
someone would inevitably run to Ma.

The midday sun was usually high,
the smell of sand and the chopping Mississippi
would be in the unbroken air.

Adults drank domestic beers and listened to classic rock.

We were just kids back then, with colorful toys.

Later on as a child, I remember my dad once shot his rifle
in the sky above a plainclothes officer
in our driveway at 1045 Bush Valley Rd.

The agent told us to get all of our guns/weapons.

I went inside and found my squirt guns
and brought them out.

The officer said with surprise, “Not those, son.”
He didn’t take my guns,
back then they were harmless.

He let me go, slap on the wrist.

Nowadays you can get arrested for that kind of stuff.

The shit we got away with,
man we were bad.

May 26, 2015

How the Rain Goes

How the rain goes.

The day the morning skies opened up,
rain came down in steady droplet form.

We know that feeling, the coming change,
or at least the animals do.

Around were deeper shades of green,
deep sepia trunks of trees, and veils of standing water.

There was no dry in the air, no dry in the heavens;
precipitation entered, and we are waiting for it to pass.

Bodies came wetted through,
going door to door so far away,
at any destination, at any time—covered.

It happens out of the clouds,
out of miracle,
out of nowhere,
out of thin air, out of life.

Miniature trails come sluiced as streams veined out,
their knotted design along sidewalks spread.

Now it is everywhere, on you dripping, on leaves, on outer matter, and on the ground.

It is soaking, seeping, as it follows gravity down—this life, new and old as one pooled.

Rain went sounding harder and harder,
pouring and pouring,
cats and dogs,
jazz crescendo, percussion,
high hat smashed, pit-pat pit-pat,
drumroll going, please,
brrrump brrrump,
to this bursting waterfall overflow,
busting through,
there was no escaping its element.

The day the morning skies opened up,
rain came down in steady droplet form,
and you were caught in between this transition of wet and dry,
not there, then alive,
then entrenched, then changed, just so.

How the rain goes.

May 20, 2015

The Cat and The Squirrel (55414)

The backyard squirrel foraged
Rolling through a thick grass,
Rubbing its underside on dirt,
Thin belly in a thin brown fur,
Moving thru sniffing, bobbing.
The cat watched from the sill,
On a makeshift dresser drawer,
Eyes darted at every twitch made,
At every moment of food found.
The two were close, intermingled,
Not viewing each other though,
Just seeing themselves different,
Obscured by a dripping window,
Staring at what could’ve been.

May 19, 2015

Bathroom Backdrop Part 1.

“I can gather all the news I need on the weather report” –Simon & Garfunkel

There is a varied world view at 9:00am.
I sat in a bathroom on a chipped enamel seat,
where devices scattered and dusted lived on the floor,
or clamped to a metal bar on the pale skin of a small wall,
they were begging for a purpose.

Here, the white draped hand towel symbolized stormy conflicts
which could become a bit less precipitous,

next to that, the hair-iron and blow dryer—likewise the same, utilize me now.

They were items I seldom ever touched.
They called me, shining, purposefully—let’s fix this problem.
We have a solution.

They spoke of their warmth in the form of buzzing,
in the cool air of the bathroom.

They were not like me on this cold beginning, I was unplugged and exposed.
They were about to be turned on.

In morning a system of systems was awoken.

My hair was too short to be straightened, too drought dry—no need for blowing,
and sometimes I liked my hands wet because hydration is key.

And they still needed something to fix, still needed a purpose.

May 16, 2015

an evening apartment

where gin drinks made wet rings upon wooden floors,
as open windows became sirens ringing in my ears.

May 14, 2015

Have Your Day

The day you have
is of your design.

May 13, 2015

Alternative is the New Cliché

To post artistic criticism today is
to paint graffiti
on a chameleon’s coarse back
and hope for intellectual longevity.
To go against the grain, razor,
a sacrifice must be made—those who disagree give up
and fall into the fold: forty a week,
snowflakes in the sun.
There will be flesh covered in blood.
With ease we quote Bukowski and Palahniuk;
though who are they to us,
us to them? Thoughts?
Good ideas without action.
Bad prose and poems at times come in good form,
and are closely read: this by example.
A dream is only a dream if you don’t realize it as a goal;
awoken to obsession, to stop at nothing,
or anything, depending.
Though commitment,
though a true course,
though a chameleon’s coarse back.
How long they maintain.
Qadri said he is not the same person
he was 6 years ago,
6 months ago,
6 weeks ago,
6 days ago,
6 minutes ago,
6 seconds ago.
I am though
slightly different,
one closer to being perfect.
…I guess I’ve changed
my mind.

May 10, 2015

It was Highland in a Nutshell

It was wet cans of PBR from a Coleman cooler
and pulls of Bulleit whisky warm
on a Friday night.

It was green Jalapeño poppers wrapped in fatty bacon
next to glistening short-cut rib rows
in a twilight kitchen.

It was pickup trucks frolicking in rusted skirts
over deep grass fields,
while hunters gathered fungi at the midday shade.

It was alabaster ashes of last evening’s fire
smoldering, becoming ghost stale
near metal pasture gates left wide open.

It was small brown trout caught in cold streams
bleeding, below an Amherst hillside
melting in the last light of a springtime Saturday.

It was Driftless region bluff’s strong straight-wind
carrying Johnny Cash’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down”
into folding valleys asunder from a driver’s side window.

It was a weekend’s mosaic of moments,
laced in and strung up together,
of oscillating seconds and intrinsic perspective.

Oh, it was…

May 6, 2015

I used to live here, Whittier South

And those injured and suffering went along
Carrying bandaged faith and sore teeth,
smelling of sour mashed sweat,
rubbing tender eyes,

as empty cans and bottles littered
the Whittier South yard where they sauntered.

Harmless props save for the thought.
It was a weekend to remember forgotten.

Sunlight carried split-skull interactions,
churned ladles in their tender stomachs.

If only these plastic chairs could talk they would be perfect witnesses,
chucked into red-ash fire
at the utterance of a word.

Feet kicked aluminum to metal sound,
and “see over there—there’s the compost.”

Now, can I have a beer?
Can I have a piss?

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