on an island of my own
staring straight into the sun
no fears are accounted for
with this nature i am one
Shrill scratches, a leaves’ song
on the fade pale of a paved road,
in the early dead of night,
where empty streets hail—
the quiet wind that blows a debris
of dried fronds to clump and to fold,
only noticed as you sliding—go,
following you along the way home.
We cut south as rain ran
off a battered roof in a gale,
marked with hard luck’s feel
we chose to quick vacate
the close crowded city.
Along cornfields & heavy trucks,
we drove into Red Wing proper–
dining at the St. James Hotel.
That what was left behind
was not as important
as what was brought with me.
Sitting in a basement classroom—
the best a big ten university could offer,
listening to words of power,
details revealed. This conversation happened
a day or so before, made new now by
a faux Foucault. Then someone subjectively said,
“… It was merely objective to be like this…”
And I still don’t enjoy groups of people
or the idea that we are all learning
in relation to the concept of doubling.
The thought is not the same. This lack
of accountability comes cleverly masked.
Noticing errors on the Powerpoint slides,
a man outside in gray moving a door,
and this farce called academia expressed.
Some pretend to be actual Philosophers,
I think I’ll pretend to be Jesus: I forgive them.
hard sleep in my eyes
queues the end credits
waking to an apartment
gathering dusted clutter
days seem growing longer
as light slips slow away
the cold goes to my bones
crawling in, just deeper
An occurrence of light
sparking at sepia clouds,
this September storm was
dismantling a short night;
crashing, breaking, flashing,
calling all to bolt upright–
that proof was so strong,
becoming our new day.
a stranger’s words
to an open ear
let through yet
from the inside,
hearing self, we
look no further.