Fog of deep valley
drifts away from verdant bluffs.
Small town soul revealed.
Fog of deep valley
…if you are pregnant in minnesota
you (i guess) carry twice as much blood;
therefore, occasionally you will find
that mosquitos really do love you.
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.
oppressive mn heat
a starch blanket
save for weighted winds
strip me hot naked
some dry desert nigh
inside for a time
sun blinding eyes
higher in the skies
and what ac wets me
nothing for going out
lights waver glowing
powering at a rout
wager for winter
wager for reprieve
betting on instinct
hoping it to leave
and at least not death valley,
dumpsters swelter in the alleys.
We no longer need reason
To say things are wrong
We no longer need action
To define our meaning
mother robin feeds her baby at window’s edge,
such new reflection of life passing through.
a lost day
in the sun,
where we all
for those who crave to float.