Posts tagged ‘travel’

May 14, 2015

Have Your Day

The day you have
is of your design.

May 10, 2015

It was Highland in a Nutshell

It was wet cans of PBR from a Coleman cooler
and pulls of Bulleit whisky warm
on a Friday night.

It was green Jalapeño poppers wrapped in fatty bacon
next to glistening short-cut rib rows
in a twilight kitchen.

It was pickup trucks frolicking in rusted skirts
over deep grass fields,
while hunters gathered fungi at the midday shade.

It was alabaster ashes of last evening’s fire
smoldering, becoming ghost stale
near metal pasture gates left wide open.

It was small brown trout caught in cold streams
bleeding, below an Amherst hillside
melting in the last light of a springtime Saturday.

It was Driftless region bluff’s strong straight-wind
carrying Johnny Cash’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down”
into folding valleys asunder from a driver’s side window.

It was a weekend’s mosaic of moments,
laced in and strung up together,
of oscillating seconds and intrinsic perspective.

Oh, it was…

May 2, 2015

Between Wisconsin and Minnesota, an evening interstate

Here I sit, fast going on an evening interstate drive,
as all the world is turned an end-day blur.

The convertible top was dropped
as the dripping moon strutted in high heavens
to flash each blemish loved,
outline each scar deep, detailed,
a desirable waning pale—the color of a tooth ache.

Cheese curd grease and fish guts lingered in the broad smiles
of each captured moment, of each phone in hand.

Hair in the air, messed,
as familiar ghosts styled each malleable strand,
I wonder if they could smell the product on their hands.

Blue Lake came rippled shining,
bending slight the reflection of dusk’s
passing azule.

Comforting speeds blew ears quiet,
as the Chrysler’s engine hummed
at a stoplight break, loved ones in tow.

The car went as we waved to neighbors
and backyard exhibitionists.

There was a police car and prom.
There were city fires burning.
There was a quiet green village turning dark.

I am JFK,
I am in horn-rimmed luxury,
vantage,
I am sitting,
surrounded by everything that I am.

I am first world problems burdened
—too full to starve, too apathetic to cry.

An extended stomach,
a dented head,
beer burps,
and you were in Mexico playing,
as the world passed on.

April 26, 2015

Human Beings at Wm O’Brien State Park, MN.

Morning.
A passenger side ranger inquiry,
lead to fresh blinding light
and splashing potable water.

Campfire embers smoldered
after an evening’s neighborly introduction and proclamation
of “Uptown Pride.”
—We, not so much.

Dusk.
Shown tattoos
and mushrooms,
no room for outside,
where the suburbs subside.

Today.
Huddles of families on holiday,
weekend campers on parade;
an International Airstream
sat local in a vast
golden marsh glade.

Yesterday Afternoon.
Pulling from the Bulleit bottle,
to crack a cold and wet brew,
gathering sticks with the best,
for firewood,
for warmth under
the firmament in rolled tents.

Last Night.
Loud bullshit and no possessable fish,
dirty fingernails and a waxing moon paled.
Lagers along a road near the St. Croix river,
walking long lengths pinecone covered trails.

Morning.
Shoes on jet rocked gravel drive;
smoothed stone,
downed trees,
white smoke,
where the sunrays seeped cutting dried eyes.

Here was Sunday morning,
a question,
packed and coming down
to the sound of classic rock, shutting doors, and moving tires.

How it got away.

April 10, 2015

Minneapolis Streets

Hennepin
Central
Franklin
Nicollet

March 29, 2015

Here.

The man who could
teleport as far
as his eyes could see
remained trapped
in a room full of mirrors.

March 21, 2015

Out of Dodge, 52 South to La Crescent

There are pieces to account for
while getting out of Dodge,
on a Friday eve, away from the city—
on the mind of those,

sat in an aged black truck on edgy burnt-out energy;
a person can purchase a mass of pink-violet
spectacle taking over western skies,

glorious sunset in tired eyes,
painting cloaked-clouds,
heavy dark, invoking peering pupils.

That giant burning orb,
light-years away,
is sinking into a foreland field,

browned is a Minnesota plain’s silhouette to come,
spotted with tail-lights
and oncoming forgotten brights;

before cars snaked out of the city
on veined webs of pavement,
onto highway 35,

which roller-coastered up and down,
thru and around,

wheels traversed crude potholes
and bad drivers—ones inciting rage,
to 52 South, to less ego.

And in the cockpit:
a cracked window,
a rear-view gaze,
changing bootlegged CDs,
and easy conversation.

The journey goes:
follow the lines to-,
follow the lights to-,
follow the signs to-,

each less visible moment passing,
each shadowed monument dusted;
stop here, stop there, no stops at all…
Make time.
Make tracks.
Make it back.

under shrouded moon above,
each sparsely laden gas station,
each pre-ghost town affixed—

to Rochester, by Rushford,
past Winona and Houston,
fast 73mph, thru Nodine—

establishments wax a dimly lit yellow,
down a long hill stretch to 14 61,

along hulks of vibrant-by-day bluffs,
past looming Lock and Dam No 7,

along the sounding Mississippi,
waters show streetlamps caught in the flow, luminescent,

and we go into town,
La Crescent, past the Hub
to Apple Village Liquors,
then to home.

There,
a warm room,
my smiling family,
and hugs await.

Pieces of what’s become
getting out of Dodge.

***

A good aspect of the city
can be getting out of it.

March 15, 2015

A Sleepy Sunday in Thunder Bay

Snow fortresses wall vacant early Spring streets,
under a shadowed loom of port buildings and storefronts,
near silt, stone, and trash;

a bay city industry,
north in a blanket of cold, under veiled clouds,
welcoming those coming through,
as Lake Superior holds puzzle-pieced ice in the fore,
central view a downhill road.

And on culture, are you Finnish yet?

Exchange rates and customs await;
crossing lines, affecting time;
to transcend this border
is to travel into the future.

On one side you are 5pm on the other you are 6.
Bonjour!

Coordinates do not matter,
to warmer unfamiliar dwellings after a night under stars,
in conifer and winter’s accumulation.

Now, here waitresses speak of our home,
and her visit—of the Twin Cities,
mentioning the food,
the night life,
the scene,
and how here is better in the next season.

We are visiting Thunder Bay,
with cats and coffee,
at an evident reader and traveler’s house on a sleepy Sunday.

March 13, 2015

Prelude to Spring Break 2015

As early March had come in biting and the best were kept inside,
a span of two weeks had passed slowly and sleep had become elusive.

Professors watched second hands tick and gave out faux tests;
these symbolic life quizzes—it’s who makes it who matters.

Desks became confines as concentration went out open windows,
to welcome hands of mild weathered-breeze and new-season sun.

People—tired students, red-eyed lecturers, they didn’t exist;
regular situations became stimuli for a stagnant comatose: why?

No answers formed, except that three days later a person could be a week away,
anywhere—abroad, nothing to do, only to read titles and books which please.

Yet we all sat watching that clock, it moved slower despite us;
now, it would have to stay indoors and assess classrooms of empty chairs.

Scholars and administration would hopefully be in Spring air, taking it in,
with a cold beer in hand and tender sunrays on their back;

minds would exist as empty—blank slates, to pen a tale—an experience,
with no thoughts of what was left sitting behind, with not a hint of rigor.

January 17, 2015

Reentry Plan (Leaving Ireland)

Double-Decker Buses, Outlet Adapters,
Dirty Seagulls and Elegant Flats;
European Cafés, Dublin City, -Ireland,
So much to pack and bring back.

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