Where snowmelt and papers
Coalesce in the street,
Tense busy-minded scholars
Move fast on their feet.
Minus an hour,
In the cold wind that blows,
Under moonlit skies.
Trees spoke to shadows—distant,
As the wind rustled
Through long hung dried leaves.
-A paper-rattle crescendo.
Night fell in the Fall;
With these empty halls, abandoned stairs, to exit doors freely.
What a season came in,
What off cry sustained.
King of Notecards
Working so hard
Obsessed with syllabus
And what’s killing us
Read a book
Write a story-
Become moved… (episteme and glory)
Ruling Notecards to
See memory through
How about you?
This lonely night,
as I scrub clean the soiled dishes.
Wet hands, same the front of my day-old shirt;
dinged pale, blotched, and loose.
Nothing in its place;
corners catching everything,
dirt sticking to the floor,
as the cat meows an indecipherable slight.
All of this would be impossible if it were tried.
Still, stifling hot,
humid as the night goes on,
sits a lonely parking lot.
There is no relief, save for another extreme; Midwest seasons.
-We know, we know.
Small things noticed under skin,
this sliver- this time, sharp and razor thin.
Walking into this empty living room
the radio addresses the score loudly.
Sitting on the couch I put my feet up,
and sink in.
Oh, what a night.
Books to entertain,
Existing on this plain.
Bikes and Lakes-
There is nothing but happiness along the way.
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.
Currently my ears are to The Current:
1.) I need to do a membership drive.
2.) I need to tell you what I have to offer.
You may need me.
The someday sun guides these moments,
Skimming and scanning words for entertainment.
Dessa Darling writes of trendy folk
Sitting somewhere in Uptown
In a hyped-up exclusive dive
She frequents all the time.
Feeling somewhat deprived…
Locally famous can get you work—
Haven’t you heard?
Can one person tell us of life?
Exposing us to worth
__Describe what to like,
And what’s cool, new, and authentic! (Right?)
Mundane to old
Fresh to mold
Hot to cold
And I digress,
I do so, but
So it goes.
Who decides the content?
What did they accomplish?
A fine print promise
Only allowing what we should know;
Ads and Marketing pave the road.
Candle to the sun
Eyes attempt escape
Another torn notion
Another empty page
We read on:
We read on.
Their sales people and prospectors betray
Their photo editors have much to display
Constantly political in profitable ways
Constantly cynical; printing what pays
And we run off to a book, to a poem, to a forest, to a river,
To hear nothing but the truth.