April 27, 2016
o’ fecund smell of
dew so ubiquitous,
our door frames,
and light shines thru
as at grandma’s
on sunday afternoons
years ago routinely,
as was morning broken
in a few stained pews,
i thought hard about
god and death
and how it didn’t
dad would have
felt the same, i know,
to ask him that question,
one day not like this,
one day never.
the sun shines different
it looks the same
as it did when our late
loved ones walked
this spinning globe.
now to imagine
for it no longer exists;
now to see
a face that no
longer is. now we
take new-growth spring
absent our others.
April 26, 2016
I was over by Frogtown for a rental showing,
all green—a soil garden, a hill, and the smell
of rotten weeds—I wondered how they
smoked it… here, an old man & his shaggy
dog play. A few varied pedestrians followed
where I walked, and street signs shown old
with certain dull patina, the kind that screams:
forgotten. Victoria St. was vacant except
for a yellow bus near the Victorian Bar and
endless gravel alleyways and broken fences &
overgrown unkempt yards. Later, the station
was alive with families and strollers and trash
and invalid transfers hopefully left. Cozy in
our blue seats on this Green Line, big windows,
we rolled up to Snelling Avenue where a
woman with her luggage used the platform
as a toilet. She pulled at her pants—up over
her waste, grabbed her loose belongings and left.
I sat with the uttered guffawed-surprised sound
of some observant passenger directly in front
of me. He caught my wide-eyed stare, I had
to think before I went to words: what a show.
April 24, 2016
And they beckon
from their red plastic cages,
emboldened words and
begging as you go,
the hailing taxis or
the pothole-dodging bikers
sometimes there is barely a thesis,
sometimes a brain fart,
sometimes a proclamation
as if the ten commandments
from God to Moses, still,
perhaps what we could simply
text and forget;
always the idea of gains
in money, though,
the purpose: profit, something
that comes in by trash ads,
not by dicey articles,
not by thought-provoking content,
in the back, paid for so that
freebie mags—these city pages,
can remain intact
and still forget to implement:
Straight to the press!
April 21, 2016
What a person would give
to wake whenever—
alarm clock inconsequential,
even for its buzzing
at startled sleeping ears;
next to a blossoming love laying,
touching, snoring, holding, warming;
for each nocturnal breath,
each pull of the down comforter
in a mute cat-hair covered duvet;
awoken to a springtime pitter-patter
which started the night before
after pictures on a screen—
now somewhat cold
listening to talk of global warming
with a whole day ahead,
oh god, Kerri Miller (sure…);
a few hours behind,
cleaned dishes sitting,
dripping as beyond the window,
and much wasn’t said
for want because this person had:
a few new books free
from Pierre Bottineau library
of Northeast (which it is not,
so I am told), flax-seed
and oats and brown sugar
and clear water;
this person sitting
had everything that was needed
and more just to realize it all
just to think,
from the inside out, heart beating,
synapse snapping, mindful
being, just slouched there,
and would give anything for it,
that thing you want so bad.
April 20, 2016
Our center of life
is constant, steady movement.
Passing along I reflect.
April 18, 2016
two weeks free, two weeks
freedom comes in all forms,
same with oppression and coffee;
we can imagine we enjoy, care,
feel, appreciate something,
only until the dream becomes bitter
and a refund is unavoidable
on that expensive as time fancy.
believe what you will, but
school made me do it.
i’m smarter than that…
and only to take moments back.
just don’t forget to bring
the crumpled receipt and iron-side guts.
that two week notice came
in the form of honest inspiration,
easy misinterpretation, and was taped
to the desk so onlookers didn’t
get their observations wrong,
even if it came from the top down
and no one could talk about it.
and the wows of micromanagement gods
and a missing centre would render
them backwardly obsolete.
surprisingly few meetings on that.
now the only thing in my way is finding
out what to do with all this freedom,
i feel for those still looking.
never a certain office could hold.
two weeks free then an oasis.
never compromise to just exist.
April 15, 2016
i thought before entry on a white dry-erase,
before a heated ride on two wheels
from southeast to st. paul, that I knew
the very minute design of others’ minds
and tight factioned intentions, laden
with exactions, with judgement, with terms
and verses, riding high in bastions that
i had made up and had yet to comprehend.
words flowed ever sweeter, poets and spoken
word artists shown before a set of red brick
telling us their inner being, using language
as their clay, and well–mastered. i thought i
above what i was the same, and no better.
but here i was better for showing my face.
i thought for a moment about this, the idea
i had carried, so heavy all through the day,
my assumptions incorrect. then i remembered,
i thought. i thought. i thought. then i went
and found out different. humans make mistakes.
beautiful how experience solves puzzles.
and then i thought about how i was wrong.
April 13, 2016
Sitting in an Iowan hotel room tithing away
a skinny television talks while i am alone;
and people find problems in commercials,
can’t find desperate fix in their own homes.
one beer and then i walk the town,
this feel has me opening wide eyes.
April 9, 2016
I would have goals but today
someone else decides them for me.
They tell me to express what these goals are
to my contemporaries and superiors
as if I have created them for my Mona Lisa herself,
some magnum opus hopeless.
We all know deep down inside
that this is what I feel: my goal,
which is their goal,
which makes the world spin,
and gets money stained.
Makes balls stay up high and in vast numbers,
makes things come full circle
and has nothing to do with Shakespeare.
I admit this fact ashamedly, uselessly, truthfully—
I am no where I am not supposed to be
when I am somewhere else entirely.
And I have no goals that are actually mine;
I call them by a different name.
I call them… I forget as I don’t want them
to be stolen from me again.
I keep them very close
and I am well armed
with bright insight and sharp suspicion.
And someone thought capitalism was good.
And I thought oh man, tell me another joke.
April 5, 2016
We are. In this between warm bellies
and harsh alarms, a shower cat
and parked cars, possible rain and clear stars.
We are. But we had to leave it to find the latter.
We are. Each morning jazz and traffic alerts,
running until our back hurts. We are.
There were charged phones and computer
screens, lights showing the props between.
We are. Just another day in all of its many ways.
We are. I wonder if they could even notice?
We are. The wind through trees blowing.
We are. See the time steadfastly going.