of pulsating flowers;
touched by sweetness
at full bloom.
a waxen yellow glow on the Nicollet Avenue scene below,
as above heavens danced and sparked white
as now onlookers stood and watched.
The hum of vehicular masses turned to a city of cratered paths,
while people were lit as props, good and evil,
coming and going about their static business.
This nature in society, framed, isolated—what we have;
metal grasps of synthetic hands
coming to and shaping us,
to make up our wake up, to shake up our trust.
Bleeding oil, exhausting fumes,
killing cows, and loud preaching fools;
we exist as a populous,
with meaningful purpose, and American sentimentalism.
Illuminated here by streetlamp’s waxen yellow glow, on Nicollet,
under heavens about to open wet,
mingling with ghosts of our yesterday,
with whole cultures of churches and states to thank.
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.
They sit high up over a vast campus backdrop watching
at those who pass fleeting along University Avenue.
Pillars which appear countless from a single sidewalk vantage
stand at the building’s edge proudly displayed.
Above the intensely ornate deco of Folwell Hall—rich education,
crimson and beige; their solid mouths gape, their eyes a dull marble
gaze at the coming and goings of those on foot.
Connecters roll along packed with transferring scholars,
people stand in peaceful commotion as bikes move fluidly
by in quick motion while the ground gathers unwrapped debris.
These statues hulk through the evening into night, fixed,
unmoved in necessary seasons, unmoved in climes and times.
When there is light the rays never escape them,
true, they never tire no matter the pitch darkness surrounding.
Hard fixtures as they loom, pressing, and they are rigidly forlorn,
above acutely exact academics, loose agendas, and airy aspirations.
A straight-line wind couldn’t take them down, gargoyles of the precipice.
Chiseled outlines grotesque, watching, in swirling noonday skies.
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?
as an old house with crying floorboards in the night
and a consistent leaky sink by day,
our skin becomes bagged and heavy,
and as malleable as putty.
The flaws emboldened—highlighted unique;
the scarring acne,
the rounded blister,
the wine-red blemish__
All beautiful characteristics,
endearing individuality to wear at the fore;
taken by some as unwanted gifts,
to hide with powdered veneer.
We all fall apart beautifully,
as tight constraints surrounding
fast loosened chains
with our appreciative perspectives,
on “I”, on “me”.
We all fall apart beautifully.
The eye of the beholder grasps us at a midmorning mirror,
as an instant fickle judgement flees,
assessment to be critically free of our character.
There is only too much time to critique.
And why waste a seventy degree day?
a day, a day,
a day, a day,
a day, a day,
a day, a day