The rounded mesas
were verdant sheen in predawn hue
and to the east
steam plumes were standing tall
and the sun
when it rose caught river currents
in the fore
so that they came
entwined to one another
on the earth,
the sun all aglow, sharp,
and the river a ghost mirror reflecting,
they were lovers
of common grounds
beyond whose husks melted worlds away
past all understanding.
The rounded mesas
no matter how
you work out
or sculpt your body
or sweat it out
or believe in yourself,
your fucked up attitude
mirror you pose in front of
no matter how
many selfies you take
from whichever different angles…
ripped sense of humor
make that pretty or attractive or sexy,
can do that,
will jack that shit up.
what does a gym
membership go for
4:30 PM i would take the 87 to the 67
in St Paul where an area code designates different
and rainclouds drop ice instead of acid.
i imagine that the book at my paunch is warm
and a deranged weapon and those
stuck in their devices won’t notice all that much.
life is like that, stuck in something and unnoticed.
that is what Nest cams are for.
Prior and Uni there is a bus stop
and a café where people shield their faces
from droplets and the smell is something unfamiliar,
musty, affronting, acidic, and rendered vanished.
then the 67, then the backseat blue,
then the same aroma i thought i left on the street,
thought for a second it was me–looked at my boots
–must just be the city. bus tires crawled
the potholes, snaked the corners,
and ran me down a slight incline to a juxtaposition.
i saw red brick molested by graffiti
in high up places from a bridge span vantage,
and felt my lunch lurch at stop and go.
diagonal street not there, but where i am going: Home.
and the mailbox lid was up waving at me,
and the gutters were like the coffee pot
with holes just dripping into the basement
to grow what might hang or cower in a crevice…
really, it has nothing to do
with my commute or the day or the buses
which brave curb rash just to find me.
i love bacon on foggy sundays
talking about past “friends”
reliving vivisection nightmares
and discussing English language.
of course, in a room full of
nametags and coffee and questions;
we are all teachers together,
except i hold my head
and wait for my lenses to change colors.
of course, came in late
and i don’t believe in
your political beliefs
too busy haggling with customer service
finding use where their is none.
she rubbed her inner thighs.
the sun was out though.
telling people what i think-thought-theory
is a litmus test for your sanity;
without commanding a sharp group
and/or their thoughts simultaneously.
the clock didn’t have numbers.
touch fingertips when you’ve found a partner.
would rather tell google to play
“hold on for one more day”
than subscribe to what is
imagined outside of the bubble; i can see too.
i will eat the whole pig and its face too.
i really don’t care when it comes to food.
a survivalist eats it cold.
Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets Walker Texas Ranger.
and i love sundays and bacon
and waking up not from surgery
or extremely hung-over and broke
and having my wife and son
right here next to me.
i like getting paid.
i didn’t waste last night at a bar
trying to tell my “friends”
i believed in what they thought
so they could like me again
when i don’t.
would rather make enough money to sleep on,
would rather. and you can
find me with bacon and without.
you can find me smiling, ready.
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.
no matter my surroundings
i find myself there.
our thick syrup is maple leaf
the greasey sausages of pork
new light cuts through pale smoke
of warm sun on the open porch
from an Ikea brand couch
scrolling my social media feed,
i ponder how many trees it takes
to make a modern revolution’s
professionally made protest sign
that says “me” and evokes “you” to react;
here, i give you honest truth–
as i sip my latte, the $10 one from Starbucks,
it tastes okay, but could be better;
to presuppose a certain movement
or ideology is more imperatively just,
i do wager that for all–i know,
which one is better and more necessary
than the rest, for the rest, obviously.
here subtle meanings are left to expire
on my re-purposed dumpster rug,
which really ties the room together;
passed by at its open casket wake,
where later these signs may litter hard pavement,
a place where my American made boots
and skinny black jeans may not go,
only in mind…
and we talk and like and demonstrate.
we are so importantly important,
this is what democracy looks like.
…and really, who bought these signs?