April 15, 2017
why not leave at 6:30 pm
or 6:38, or whenever time,
no time no matter no worry,
cant think for not?
we go in wetting droplets,
Gods globulars hung at our mirrors
sluiced in the whatnot, and everyday.
Lexington Parkway traffic,
homeless with signs, traffic,
dampness seeps in the traffic,
94 traffic to 52 south.
we were full to the brim; kitchen sink.
sometimes i feel bad for them.
sometimes i feel bad for me.
more of want of wont of need, both agreed.
sometimes everything is always run on monies
so i work harder on Mondays come and see me.
Antony and the Johnsons loudly
and a Fistful of Love… you have never heard of.
the things we dont know are more poignant.
cut across a freeway, no freedom
on our way along the way to see some,
temped by wiperblade and dead deer viscera–
something scattered last week and foul
something old and brown and our future.
losing light like the night.
more south, St Charles, Rochester,
more south, Preston, Rushford, Houston,
into the deep croaking valley green
spawned ever by these roiling storms
kind that would hard driving make
then here now true.
i always wish to dine in Nodine.
then there on the hillside:
a blazing hot cross that says fuck you in passive aggressive
to the spoiled lot that whined about it from WI
extinguished from their special sensitive gaze.
a train that i didnt see but heard blew on by–
must be a metaphor for something…
look at that rambler, i want it.
we can leave whenever to wherever
but when we make it well know for not.
But when we left didnt matter really.
come to theorize:
perhaps Dale Earnhardt’s death
was the 9/11 of NASCAR…
April 11, 2017
what a night.
one to still breathe in
fresh air out there.
thankful, i do care…
for the cold brown beans,
for the expensive warm heat,
for the voided leave-less trees–
they make this
sort of explosion
of a thousand fingertips
in the fore of holding their place in
some melting pale hue color of shadowed bone,
the sun is gone tho.
friends and kin die alone; now alone.
even thankful for that
and the cat.
and mosquitoes: minnesota bats
where you at?
between making it and i cant.
thankful i am in the midwest
not religious, but blessed.
not tired, no rest.
thankful for that still, yet.
more water from the tap
more teaching, notebook’s in lap.
filling in the gaps.
dont worry, dont clap.
what a night.
what a night.
thankful it’s free to me.
thankful have it be.
April 10, 2017
A dented car, the front as a pug, not planned as that, like life. And we criticize the fate for being, criticize the sun for heating, walk alone in desolate winter and ask for a warm hand to help guide. Nothing to do. Nothing to do. Cant change it.
April 1, 2017
State lines on 35E.
Sunshine and wind turbines
In a row, forceful pull.
Take hold, take the wheel.
The Shins, The Smiths.
Rest stop to piss, half eat, full nurse
And watch dogs go amiss.
Lines in the road, cement grey for days.
Phone in roam.
Iowa is not my new home
But they have golden corn
And they have painted domes
That look from Russia make.
I mock that Putin built them here himself
In these divided climes.
But we cant take a joke, so no.
Central America; some trick.
Digest raisins, sup coffee;
See blue barns and ads of semis.
Ladies with hands up disgust,
Use your fucking blinkers please,
Wave, thank you much.
And we go, go, go.
Under the pale blue cut wet clouds
Onward to beautiful yards
And brick castles of made design.
And a welcome guest room the same by friends.
March 30, 2017
every day to the last,
and make that so.
March 29, 2017
i learned that Grandad Bluff is a true mesa
that scans the westerly horizon
and surveils the haunted currents
of the Mississippi. learned it
wasn’t a giant looming under the soil,
ready to outstretch and become massive.
though it spired peaks appears
as some monkey ossature, missing abdomen,
fore shoots it’s broken visage grimace.
heard of people falling off after
being chased by fourwheelers. used to
drink draught at Witches and Jesus
and imagine the things that happened between trees.
old times they wanted to turn
it to dust and money but Hixon stopped it.
thank you Hixon. i learned about Grandad Bluff
and missed my history because
one was already made before me long ago,
i suppose that is how it is with most things though.
feel a part, not really, aren’t,
then you read what it is all about.
still i love La Crosse for what it is:
a port city ready for a cold one
waiting for the weekend
always has your back even
if it’s a total dick sometimes.
and they talk about the water and health.