Some wrong is right, some right is wrong;
the only matter is who sings the song.
Some wrong is right, some right is wrong;
At times we are a shameless weekend day-drunk,
on more mission than malicious,
while some factors remain
out of our hands.
In Dinkytown, a hundred dollars pocketed,
bike tires on fresh-thawed paths—
I moved with those in needed noontime sun,
where girls in flowery mini-skirts and low-cut t-shirts
families holding hands and smiling men—friends,
on a walk, on the go,
to Washington Ave, to West River Parkway, to bike paths,
more on the trek: sunglasses, glances, buses, and light-rails
those along the tracks.
a Saturday to spend,
In the foreground beautiful dimensions;
a bridge expanse,
where tons of rock and rubble smashed,
stood in the sky above brown waters stirring,
above geese making wake,
with joggers, debris, bikers, and cars in the street,
this is where a person must stand the apex and view the cityscape ahead,
from Franklin Ave Bridge, it was.
Where Marathons had crossed,
where break-ups took place,
where others died on bikes by cars
in the twilight.
Memorials stood for them, fading,
locked to poles,
My mission: head to Zipp’s for that
a $25 bottled designer beer.
I had to,
latent function ephemera.
like biking while cars pass,
here, remembering houses and nightly walks home alone,
or with new found strangers,
remembering people under streetlamps, red eyes glare,
empty cans and scattered trash about,
An accident brought me back here for something,
Seward streets and an absence of time.
I thought of Tracy’s and Luce,
and cigarettes and movies,
of what I had not come to see,
I was careful with my backpack, another bottle couldn’t break.
Waiting the day
wasting the now
for the then.
Sharp alarms, busy commutes, weathered words,
we are too—
local tasks, art, lists, work, and trends.
A monoculture of plants
in a field
offers a species fading—
a group of homogeneous acts
you get the point.
I must have stepped onto the bus
and forgotten my change.
Can I borrow from you?
You, me; us we—forward or backward,
together we are the same.
Parts of a carnal body, whole—
built of dust, thoughts, and air;
no scar is without a measure,
no action still unmoved,
shell of human being outside,
ghost of us within.
We are compelling a kind,
eyes peer to see;
from Franklin and Nicollet to NE,
Middle America to Middle East.
Still, forward or backward, we are the same.
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,
heavy dark, invoking peering pupils.
That giant burning orb,
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 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.
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.
Observe the scattered common stones of these Twin Cities,
dusting sidewalks crumbled—ubiquitous,
taken in hand at foot, and thrown to,
from a bridge’s span above fast flowing currents of the Mississippi below.
Here flies to splash an artistry tangible,
before honest spoken words,
a sharp tone in tender ears,
which is contrast to what’s pictured:
Seen drawn lines,
Seen paintings bright,
Seen music made,
Seen night life.
Though observe them,
they are outside, heads aloft in thick-clouded dreams,
banded, mouths in perpetual motion,
hands seldom untied,
broken parts of stone—
proof over talking about the scene you’ve seen.
How those stones have accrued.
Some things get overlooked,
some things get stepped on;
other things get talked about profusely;
What of art does one hear?
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.
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,
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.
Tall, the buildings do look down on me,
in their all too mirrored reflections;
content in ways, their eyes do gaze,
busy city brought to my attention.