April 20, 2015
On a home commute lately,
on Como Avenue’s length,
under streetlamp’s orange presence,
with blurred trucks and cars,
where sleeping neighborhoods
and empty industry wait;
I am moving between point A and point B,
I am alone in the dark nodding hello
to the stoplights changing,
empty storefront’s grey,
and mounting sidewalk debris.
Still some bars glow,
still long trains roll.
Coming to me are night smells
of dried hay—ironic spring,
careless weed smoke blown,
and fabric softener exhaust—all biking home.
Lost in darkened new elements
under low heavens, star speckled skies,
lately through Como,
on a commute between two cities,
resting local economy,
where sparkling broken glass
is scattered—reflect, a sight,
in clouded purple shade
of night, no sun, to my eyes, and going home.
April 19, 2015
where difference is proclaiming your hardships
in the same way as everyone else.
April 17, 2015
A good day
a good morning,
starts with clear sight,
and an open mind,
starts with a coffee in hand,
starts with movement
a good day starts with starting,
a good day starts with you.
April 16, 2015
I sat on a wooden deck
the Midwest Poetry Summit,
what a night, sights
whisky breath and sunburnt,
see Scott Seekins—the Artist, the artistry,
everywhere and nowhere at once: art,
local artists sitting in a corner,
all talking and laughing,
patting each other’s backs with hard-handed purpose—see(?),
an overzealous—bee sting effect,
saying: “we are” and “oh ho!”,
it was enough
to make a common person cry,
a tidal wave
April 15, 2015
the space within a backpack
heavy and overpriced textbooks
cheap ripened bananas,
next to each
They tell a tale of economics and lifestyle…
I go along Coffman Memorial Union,
the pricey disaster
April 14, 2015
April 12, 2015
In a tight vanilla pale room
with a tangerine sunset view,
where high association
shared big words
and accomplishments tacitly,
wink to a nod,
touching pinked-white hands—shaking,
close, related, akin,
with more than five dollar’s worth of language present, presented,
of which few perhaps did understand,
it didn’t matter though,
behind modern dark faux wooden frames, Lennon round,
piercing eyes darted—knowing names, big thanks,
as bodies in ironed button up shirts,
suit jackets dusted,
leather shoes shined,
and neutral colored slacks creased,
hair done stiff, fine—slicked back shine,
lines and verses and words;
as those within oohed and aahed,
at each vocal cord’s articulation,
as attendees and audience members
smiled, drank, laughed, explained, translated, and clapped.
A brave man said with confidence to the glaring crowd: this was the movement,
we were it.
I guess maybe I couldn’t relate;
I felt more like a dried stalk of corn in a Midwestern summertime field,
some monocultures are unescapable.
April 10, 2015
April 9, 2015
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.