I knew that it couldn’t ever be,
At that moment it was entirely true,
When I asked you to “throw me a beer”
And a Bud Light Lime is what you threw.
This wet morning I
last night’s genius,
do you remember, I ask her.
It was a good one-liner.
No, she says…
I was tired.
So was I,
lacking a near pen, paper sat
on the nightstand as my head rested in
a pillow, my body under
a warm white duvet, next to her loving,
and at that moment my genius got up, jealous,
waited, and then moved to the door.
It felt all right
to let my genius
walk out and away.
Though, I hope it beat the rain.
Looking over the tanned Hennepin Avenue Bridge
where a shaded Grain Belt sign still won’t shine.
Here too, Nicollet Island looms in an aromatic Spring night,
shadowed by new and ancient high-rises, boxes of floors,
holes of light, standing against the straightening northern winds.
These apartments of the departed—mills and factories and dreams,
ghosts left for better times and warmer climes.
They no more see the Guthrie above a scintillating river’s distance,
no more spiraling down Gold Medal Park pathways
through thick buggy twilights, in tow bags full of books and beer
slung over shoulders, no more here; new eyes peer.
No more boats or barges pass through the upper lock and dam
loaded with local commodities, as pedestrians stroll along St. Anthony Main
catching a movie, drinking and spending, as tangled trees
build up and obstruct the Mississippi flow below Central, sounding wetness,
sounding to south. For this sign there is no more light.
Right here, remembering this unlit hallmark as headlamps
of cars buzz flashing by, on dotted pot-holed streets,
we on feet, bumble through dialogue of what we read and where we’ve been.
This sign now is painted black as it watches over downtown in the fore,
were it shining off of the muddy waters, were it catching in cigarette smoke
exhaled, were it meeting pupils and blazing that scene on some
grey matter fold in a viewer’s mind, it would still be lit up there,
hanging above a tanned bridge, in its gold, black, white, and red.
The Easter Bunny
and three days later
he rose again…
with a bunch
At times we are a shameless weekend day-drunk,
on more mission than malicious,
while some factors remain
out of our hands.
In Dinkytown, a hundred dollars pocketed,
bike tires on fresh-thawed paths—
I moved with those in needed noontime sun,
where girls in flowery mini-skirts and low-cut t-shirts
families holding hands and smiling men—friends,
on a walk, on the go,
to Washington Ave, to West River Parkway, to bike paths,
more on the trek: sunglasses, glances, buses, and light-rails
those along the tracks.
a Saturday to spend,
In the foreground beautiful dimensions;
a bridge expanse,
where tons of rock and rubble smashed,
stood in the sky above brown waters stirring,
above geese making wake,
with joggers, debris, bikers, and cars in the street,
this is where a person must stand the apex and view the cityscape ahead,
from Franklin Ave Bridge, it was.
Where Marathons had crossed,
where break-ups took place,
where others died on bikes by cars
in the twilight.
Memorials stood for them, fading,
locked to poles,
My mission: head to Zipp’s for that
a $25 bottled designer beer.
I had to,
latent function ephemera.
like biking while cars pass,
here, remembering houses and nightly walks home alone,
or with new found strangers,
remembering people under streetlamps, red eyes glare,
empty cans and scattered trash about,
An accident brought me back here for something,
Seward streets and an absence of time.
I thought of Tracy’s and Luce,
and cigarettes and movies,
of what I had not come to see,
I was careful with my backpack, another bottle couldn’t break.
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.