Fickle love’s passing fate,
Seen a wretched cold world;
Sweet birdsong of the wind,
And a blouse lay unfurled.
Fickle love’s passing fate,
Caught in the action;
Kept taut on a rope.
Thoughts of reading a text by *S. Heaney,
Bits and pieces of dewed Madrid,
With heavy inflections of Hemingway,
Scattered about within. Bull horns
And drink, and women, and sex. Smell
Of skin, fish parts, and molded excrement.
Emitting and emoting the pawing presence
Of death; Protestant and Catholic,
Rebellions over said claims.
There the air held hot, as one without water,
Lacking, in a vast desert, as a drunk’s hung-over
Morning plight, -head-spin, praying for the noise to fast die,
Lavishing in Great Lakes of the mind.
He spoke of letting it go, as in
Sobering up, as in really feeling this event.
He had been fearing the gun holster
And lack of action in present. Admiring the man
Who hand-gripped the cold barrel steel, afraid to notice.
But all those bleeding bulls, and fish debris, and local
Women, and spent shells counted. Dripping their sweetness
On his fingertips, wet, as the spilt thick
Ink of his pen. Language of stink
And movement. Surely he felt a bit
Satisfied as he sipped a beaded glass of beer
In the city center, in the summer, 1969,
In Madrid, as he wrote his free-verse prose. As he
Let his words come alive and go.
Sipping hot Chai Tea,
When bitter came sweet.
Numbers change degrees,
Perspective saw discreet.
Early time of day,
We met along the way.
Present here now sit,
A life made of odd bits.
Notice slight turn of head
Sparking bulbs in the mind;
Wait, watch, and reflect,
Faint to smell of Dandelion.
Supple as shone flesh,
One acknowledges dewed must,
Affective thoughts to pass,
Words spoke, open mouth trust.
Touching each endpoint nerve,
Appointing minor tasks-
Let eager subjects be served.
Sit perked straight up,
Lace bound tight round back;
Pictures opened doors,
Imagined forms one retracts.
That fiend- the mind, moves fancy to bust.
That fiend- the thought: human nature of lust.
beyond a standing open door.
Fan blows low,
violins cry; moaning- in the air.
Cat bounds, jumps,
across a dusted floor.
This motionless single-bedroom apartment, still, as mind dances the Tango.
Loved ones, phone.
rolling in the lamplight
covered in white-cloud blankets
warm in her spot.
The bed holds like a trusted hand.
shadows paint the walls and ceiling.
Torso imprints a time, right there.
past moments in my mind.
At the beach,
this burnt sand desert;
Swimming lake water to avoid the heat,
people lazing on towels,
hiding beer cans
attempt save discrete.
Plants sharp as knives while walking with bare-feet.
At the beach
At the beach
Sex parts covered by diaphanous cloth,
where we sit with wandering thought lost.
discussion minced, quiet commotion-
ride, bipedal, or car from the city to the streets to meet,
at the beach
at the beach.
on pretty flesh;
a meaningful, forever, sentiment- lined sketch.
For life, for death,
a canvass to test,
bold bright colors; judgment: pretense.
Now art, now unique, now taut puffed; hurt when pressed.
Self-inflicted wounds to heal,
paying for this pain,
stories etched on the surface;
Now, what do yours mean? …
Everyone is jumping off of that bridge,
So I packed a parachute and lit a smoke- see?
Alongside shared-living apartments
Neon-signs cluttered storefronts.
7 years ago I was more acquainted
There was so much to forget.
There was sun and snow,
Heartbreak and elation,
Sex and lies, good times;
Things called by other names, situations.
Past trees which grew
Broken glass from bottles drunks threw
Stand lampposts which haven’t moved
These quiet streets, home for rocks, sand, and dust- below shoes.
Maneuvering, wondering if the old neighbors were still alive.
Winter stuck in a basement
Bright light outside
Warm only within
-Hiding eyes behind dingy broken blinds.
Father stopped in around Christmastime
I was with a she who left like the wind.
Found in moments betting on the weather.
Trash amassed; pieces of me mixed between.
Now I ride by this old familiar place.
How did this town get so small?
How did I get so big?
She once said: biking is the best way to learn the city; Minneapolis is the biggest small town around.