Archive for ‘La Crescent’

September 17, 2017

Homecoming

My heimstatt has hills that go wending
A mighty river that flows bending south
And people so free, you are too, and can be
A place in the past and present, now
My family buried in deep, rich soils
Trying to fight it as aged leaves in fall
But we all must change for something
I choose docile and those who understand me
Never meant to be caged or tied or told
Fish where my father did, see him
Lost in meandering wakes trailing off
Trawling as a million circles borne for clouds
Through rain and chop and histories in water
Coming back here, want to stay–longer
The cities aren’t so hard at all
But this warmth, this peace–all days
Pleasantries, i hope others cant find it too ere me
For i need space for my love and my progeny
Pull the roots of the trees for better
Head south as that river goes, tell me no
Head south to it, i am fine, no worries, just  

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July 1, 2017

rabbit in my heads

i followed a little grey
rabbit as it
leapt at the outside
window low while

hanging my curtain
readying the act
talking to China
as they talk back, my show.

i watched the tree
tied for its stiff branches
noticed leaves
all around on the ground, thinking…

going upstairs two dogs lay
startled and wait,
and startled again and came
at me to the gates.

above at the coffee pot hot
readied the night before,
here, much surprise
take it just black, i take it back.

tho my woman startled as
i left the bed
thinking i was child
and i was not, she said.

again but out the high window
a rabbit, same one, came
leapt on red bricks
of a neighbor’s drive.

ere we came to a locked door evening
the green grass straight
mosquito birds and
they wanted us to join,

told them “no, maybe… thanks”
broke the new fence
went around to a
La Crescent unlocked door

and here i stand, mug, ready to teach
watching a rabbit go about
thinking like us all too
it must eat breakfast.

March 25, 2017

coulee region, 6 am

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,
as if
they were lovers
of common grounds
beyond whose husks melted worlds away
past all understanding.

February 4, 2017

some bright orbs are hated for their difference

i feel like a grapefruit in
an orange grove sometimes–
like shave, shower, shit;
alarm bells, scrolling the internet;
deodorant, brush, smile,
sweating thru, flannel, true;
Moby-Dick, Hitchens, and
Bukowski, metal ends
to my leather toes;
unknown and close, you would never know.
40 and holding, always weekly,
bitch and complain and shamed
but still nothing for change…
and when they peel my flesh to test
the citrus juice comes fresh,
more blood orange than a crate of grapes,
more real than fake.
and they talk about Onalaska
and La Crosse and La Crescent
like they are all me, and not.
something above it, but
a grapefruit in an orange grove,
thinking differently alot.
or i think i forgot,
but that’s no big deal anyway,
see what i look like, have a taste.

December 26, 2016

tree removal, i wonder what they pay

a tree removal company rolled up in two trucks in front of my mother’s house. one with a hydraulic lift to scale the tree, the other with a chipper to change its form. they both sat on ice; my mother talked of salting the drive. we watched from the window, Bella the doodle most concerned. earlier i had noted morning light orange of the highest limbs of trees and a bluff black and white back drop before anyone could be called awake, no stirring. and men jumped from their trucks–muffled steps resounded, figured the positioning, lifted, tied ropes, ran trailers into the snowy ground and began to saw, saw, saw. the owner, anal about his law, came out to discuss the future of each blade and which way trees fall in the city. and then it happened. the fall. no “timber” for timber. silence as a shock wave, through the centre, through the top of the tree sending it swaying in a sickening bow back and then forth. i imagined a whole life ruined for a moment; i imagined the rings of a tree and its age are only revealed after death. nextly. chips and dust and exhaust and noise and cutting and chopping and tossing happened in enough cool to make each exhale seen, almost tangible. some authoritative hollers. aside from that, i wonder, how they do it. i could cut down trees too. i wonder what they pay.

December 25, 2016

holiday cheers!

i guess well here’s
a christmas story,
the presents were piled
’round the tree,
in my heavy coffee mug
i substituted
pumpkin spiced liqueur
for bailey’s irish creme.
and i say happy holiday!
cheers, cheers cheers!

September 18, 2016

La Crescent Haiku #1

Fog of deep valley
drifts away from verdant bluffs.
Small town soul revealed.

September 4, 2016

apathy and highways

52 south past Greg’s Meats and a spired oil refinery,
if i were a plotting baddy it would be Mount Rushmore
for symbolism and confusion of the masses.
an open highway before us: droves on phones,
and couples on parade; the rich in their luxury sedans
and country in super duty small dick specials.
dashboard view of master photography, one that could
inspire a journey home, or west, or to new horizons,
something bold and powerful like in health magazines;
in old lands, which are new and no one could care less—
it means something on instagram or facebook or twitter
but beyond it’s malarkey. but really, i usually wonder about
the next rest stop; Gatorade makes me shit and coffee
makes me piss and light nagging hangovers do wonders
for my guilt and humbleness. kids on the way, us kids.
a dog barks in the morning minus its shock collar. this escapism
from a city to a town, needing to find something in nothing,
no more labels that matter, just gathering cut wood
from neighbors who are dead and the living ones
didn’t like their beautiful red and green maple trees,
still we did. logs season enough in a year to make
smoke, to make fuel, ash, what we rode in on. washed and
cleaned and we pulled our mirrors out and met meine Schwestern
am die Ecker squealing tires, snapchated that.
and then we were off to southern homes like ma’s pasta,
like baked goods revamped, like a road less traveled
what should be traveled more. sunday mornings
waiting for the paper, fixing engines to make money.
all is well, birds can tell, and i don’t get their songs.

July 25, 2016

chocolate milk

in elementary school
i used to violently shake
chocolate milk cartons
until they were mixed
sweet as milk shakes.

i learned something
important here:
if you don’t like
what you get, stir things up
a bit to your liking.

i still do this activity
on occasion today,
shake, stir, twist–
just not with milk cartons,
tho i still muck with taste.

June 12, 2016

here i was, (let’s go out on the river…)

amidst trailing bluffs above oil-rainbowed waters
where a man at the bow shot arrows at gar with a bow
a boy floated into the mind of a new man dad,
focused on churning barge death dealt
coming in cool crossed wakes,
water’s spray, fish gut aroma & cracked beers,
wetting the hand and drying the mouth,
jet boat reprieve wading at Stoddard calm—
above a dam, pissing swimming pants at the back,
speaking of motorbiking to Iowa for a pack of smokes
and a gallon of water, going 110 mph: passing cars,
hiding weekend fun from a sheriff’s skiff
going so fast on by that we couldn’t tell,
back up to just below Cass Street bridge in peak heat,
the kind that grows on you in color
and only halfway through a no wake zone,
halfway wishing i was with my love,
halfway somewhere: growing old, staying awake,
sipping pina coladas, bumming cigarettes,
and spraying thick sticky suntan lotion clouds
not long after the occurrence of already changing red,
my crushed fedora & new frames sans transition lenses,
this real life escape. something like a
last-minute decision over a landline,
moments later he picked me up saying: we’re late.