exactly knowing & accurate
judgement are as frequent
as authenticity in the bar
lights & sidewalks of uptown.
exactly knowing & accurate
days i wake bolt upright
nothing but happy.
it is here in southeast
or la crosse, or la crescent,
or whittier, or uptown
or dublin, or Washington Ave
where no one alive
can take that away.
nothing but happy here,
just to hit that snooze.
a waxen yellow glow on the Nicollet Avenue scene below,
as above heavens danced and sparked white
as now onlookers stood and watched.
The hum of vehicular masses turned to a city of cratered paths,
while people were lit as props, good and evil,
coming and going about their static business.
This nature in society, framed, isolated—what we have;
metal grasps of synthetic hands
coming to and shaping us,
to make up our wake up, to shake up our trust.
Bleeding oil, exhausting fumes,
killing cows, and loud preaching fools;
we exist as a populous,
with meaningful purpose, and American sentimentalism.
Illuminated here by streetlamp’s waxen yellow glow, on Nicollet,
under heavens about to open wet,
mingling with ghosts of our yesterday,
with whole cultures of churches and states to thank.
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.
no room for outside,
where the suburbs subside.
Huddles of families on holiday,
weekend campers on parade;
an International Airstream
sat local in a vast
golden marsh glade.
Pulling from the Bulleit bottle,
to crack a cold and wet brew,
gathering sticks with the best,
for warmth under
the firmament in rolled tents.
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.
Shoes on jet rocked gravel drive;
where the sunrays seeped cutting dried eyes.
Here was Sunday morning,
packed and coming down
to the sound of classic rock, shutting doors, and moving tires.
How it got away.
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.
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.
I once met this “poet”,
He hadn’t written a single word—
It’s been years since then,
He bears the same rank and title.
Driving around town in a small truck
What is black and spots of rust
Casually burning off dewed steam
Cruising around amidst a day-dream
Remotely relaxed at assigned red stop
Cautiously avoiding few local cops
Riding through this quaint little town
One would hope to not get found
A village in rearview present
Life, time of reminiscence pleasant
Coming down for family and funerals
City opposed typical, simple, usual
Though it were anything out of the ordinary
One might even see something extraordinary
Appearance placeholder; -one’s perception
Holding wheel tight, releasing tension
Midwest-mild resulting in interpretation
Contemplate while we cross this situation.