First alarms sounded of a white snowy morning. Heavy and wet, flakes covered the ground as those in the river were covered by water, never to come home again. Fast late last year turns to right now present; and years, and sorted experience before. It came out like a pocket knife to test, to screw, to cut once, deep. It was the kind sharpened to a fine edge. Dead bones rested below, and in the back of one’s mind. People came and went; flesh loosened, darkened, slackened, and dusted with age back to dirt. Blades of toy windmills caught the grey air, while leaves fell zigzag to the browned December ground. We just ran by. Air brakes of a semi sounded off far on a distant highway, for those who traveled about the countryside, between the bluffs, near the riverbed; all to hear, all to unite in this one thought, some time, some date, in one mind. Ubiquitous green trees once loomed watching over this tiny town, Apple Capital, providing breath, under thick blankets of sepia cloud; brisk and cool in winter light, it moved through valleys touching rock, touching sand, touching faces, creating must and dew, on bark, and Fall’s fodder, on all who caught a glimpse. Each little speck floated soundless, seeming endlessly to the darkened pavement, as eyes took to more than they could unpack.
Foggy covetous invalids,
leant on glistening balustrades,
with gossamer hangings; bent
blades of grass, enacting a fool’s
calypso in cover of darkness, at
that exact moment, for all gleaming
eyes to witness, as winds stirred
through an open door below.
Another day of internet fame
Giving our selfies to the world
Loving fake realism abound
Bright as diamonds and pearls.
We could reflect on vanity
We could unpack and unfurl
This camera lens needs a model,
Please be the next Cover Girl.
Recent Art: The Truly Amazing
Handpicked; no filter, true—why wait?
These photos; we are scrolling pages,
Even on fine dinner dates.
Selfless as one must be
To take the perfect selfie
Relax and snap that picture;
Capture your inner luxury.
Becoming as real as we are,
Face to face with the stars.
One is made pragmatic by experience;
A grave man
Speaks grave words
Of which the living cannot hear.
I would not spend $50,000 to buy shit.
Old-time orthodox tradition;
If fish didn’t kill themselves
By swimming out of water
We wouldn’t have cellphones.
Relative relations wouldn’t spring so fast on advantage.
Men wouldn’t stand on two legs,
Or breathe the thin air.
Or Fuck or Fight,
Or even care.
What is art for?
Based on rhymes,
Behind closed doors.
And then they tell us to read:
Edgar Allan Poe,
Where “Lawyer” isn’t even a Word…
-Small town folk,
With small town ideals.
Maybe I’m joking,
Maybe I’m ForRealz.
Because I am
Cut from the same cloth.
Then they tell us to fit in this:
I was merely stuck in a book,
You merely read some words.
If things weren’t going for me
I’d probably too act on urge.
Now, how does one do the first part again?
Strong Autumn winds blow in;
Through trees, on a whim- these limbs,
and shadows made of them.
Exhausted year, once again…
Biers and tears,
Free and easy,
Mind’s been cleared.
Coming up wasted and frustrated-
Elliot Smith came up roses,
Empty handed impatience,
Changing mindset with practiced poses.
Some of the best luck of all time,
Some of the unluckiest best times,
Some logic takes heavy loads off minds.
Some laziness, what!? -The awful crime.
Round corners above pavement,
On a bike,
Life is dangerous,
Backpack filled with book pages,
Summer’s gone recently, but not for long,
This weather; indifferent, right, or wrong.
The Midwest is at least unique in that it is unpredictable in clime.
And I imagine Simon and Garfunkel will enjoy their vodka and lime.
On a boat close an expansive dam
A boy accompanied an Old Man
Fishing for hours cold hands
Only to have come up few clams
The river remained rough
Water spray wet brown splash
Bubbles in the water swirling
Bottom of boat held beer cans
Farther up the boy could see birds
Up close to the tumblers brightly red
Over white-caps exchanged few words
The Old Man palmed his rod in hand
Lock and Dam 7 lent no pension
Yet many prospered in its wake
The Old Man and the boy lay patient
They trolled up and down, but had to wait
Ice coated concrete walls
With rope or hook they fastened tight
Daylight lasted only so long in afternoons
The highway lights suggested night
Untying they came undone
River smell and worms in hand
The fish on the stringer were meager
Pushing off they went towards land
They passed others by and by
Anglers that were mastered
Coming closer to the landing point
Lights on avoiding disaster
Trailing wake in full gait
An out-board went ‘bout 20 knots
Blackness and bugs flew by about them
As they came closer to the docks
Lamplight held empty parking lot
Shown just below the river’s edge
The flat-bottom came parallel the wooden structure
The boy managed at his sea legs
With a hard bump from running in fast
A rope was fastened—quick, and down
The boat made way with the water
The boy made feet with wooden ground
Cold rushed from the river valley out
Nothing held the boy more in life
Than to be out near the Mighty Mississippi
In the dwindling hours of night
As children we are exposed to habits which prove a tradition
As adults we revisit those events to see what lessons were given.
We lost the interest before we began
Moving fixed posters on the thick walls
Level-headed distinguished man
Digging hard and working all
Sight beheld in the palm of worn hand
Many created problems we’ve called
We never tried to make a plan
Sedentary thoughts prove scrawled
From Forefather’s will in our acts we’ve strayed
Many against the conservative man
Labels aren’t of working clay
Written books in stern pale hand
Lest knowledge gone, saves the old way
Covered maps in possessive words to understand
Ponderings of the lighted day
Proven by those that they can stand
Mixed pot of melting to tell
Ignorant jump so high for frail joy
The inner workings of this great hell
Innocent lost those few trained boys
White colors cast the witch’s spell
Conjured up in those open young and coy
That symbolic dust holds to the clouds well
Annoyance of such fickle vetted choice
Locked into strict box orthodox-stayed course
The American Dream’s been broken and forced.