i scaled the skin off of my feet
with some sponge
so i could sleep, this was 11pm.
i thought of how an acquaintance spoke of incompetence,
Putin, and being a gun-owner
all in one Letter to the Editor.
that is where you will find the news today.
you will not find sleep there.
you will find sleep in scrubbing clean.
my feet were in silent torment, sorrow.
i wonder about
how contagious this might be.
i wonder about the water down the drain,
where it goes
and how it makes me tired.
my toes dry straight up in twilight air
and the dim light of night
that sticks from a wall socket.
thank god for that creme.
and that others got real problems,
ones they can sleep on.
i scaled the skin off of my feet
tear the plastic
to your life!
no matter my surroundings
i find myself there.
London fog in frogtown usa, all is lustig all is jocial and ready set go.
our thick syrup is maple leaf
the greasey sausages of pork
new light cuts through pale smoke
of warm sun on the open porch
on Saturdays i can usually
drink a whole pot of coffee, not just half
so it sits until the next day and maybe
goes into a growler in the fridge.
my stepfather says it’s a waste to make less
than a full pot of coffee, so today i feel
accomplished and un-wasteful. on the way
to write this i played with the stinky cat
with a painful foot that possesses an ingrown
toenail on the big toe and has athletes
foot unrestricted. i turned on the kitchen
light and opened the shades and perused
the backlot as i filled the pot with tap water.
my wife changed a dirty diaper and prepared
for work. i cleared my mind for getting my
ID updated and a new credit card;
i would have to change accounts. i poured what
was left of the old coffee from yesterday
into a tall glass, added creamer and drank.
thought about how i won’t buy beer this weekend
and how our podcast went so well. it’s things like these
that matter, keep the full pot full, positive.
my stepdad was right, and then she walked in
to ask what i was doing in here, listening
to funky soul on Google Home and writing.
waiting for the full pot of coffee to be done.
you know what?
flowers do matter.
i bought no flowers,
i had no money,
about that and how it worked…
each year when we were little,
my dad would send flowers
to me and my sisters
at the time
i found it odd to get roses
from my dad…
my sister reminded me of this
in a text.
i said yes.
thought about consumerism and cards
and how they weren’t flowers.
how i thought flowers
i told her i missed him.
then i thought about it
and how i should take some flowers
to his grave.
there are 10,000,000
of the same exact
what you want
to do… the same exact.
so, how do
what you have to
prove, the you
and what you do?
write about your
write about love,
or if you don’t feel it
fantasize about it;
society gives you truth.
(where is the lens?)
minimum parental leave,
as a dad,
diapers and breast milk,
little to no money,
full-time work with college debt,
no covered movement,
cis pale male,
i tell people what i think–
no promotion to climb a ladder,
and i make myself happy.
yet still for a poet
my plight isn’t
there are bigger memes.
more advertisement to be had.
so forget it.
now, it doesn’t matter.
some times i might use the same word too much in my poems to convey a message, to makes sense. the summer day may have too much sun, the evening night too much silence. what this tells me about wordage, i do not know. i like South Dakota and time off and simple language and useless protests and all those involved, they are everywhere. the spectacle. and so are my words, when used over and over again. this isn’t a college poetry workshop, so, otherwise i would care. the the the the the the the the the. some times, the words.