i woke up this morning
painting a painting,
put the colors in it,
gave it detail,
and so it was.
minor moves in maelstrom.
then i called it my own
and asked for a museum,
a place for it to
be put up in,
a place for it to call home.
eye of the storm, so settle in.
and then i woke up again.
and then i found my painting.
and then i found my museum.
to the leeward we form.
looking at the mirror
even with tired eyes.
thank you for this day.
i woke up this morning
even if you lose,
one time, jess and i drove to canada
in a small chevy truck. we stayed along
lake superior and its blowing winds. thought
cedar greens would snap. got to tofte at
about 8:35pm, couldn’t see the site.
a ranger called that morning told me they plowed it.
slept on hard rock ground, no foam mattress.
woke up found we were at the shoreline,
read a death in venice. made coffee,
warmed fingers, walked in snow. thought
of my dad and how it was 70 in the cities.
we drove north, had pizza at sven and ole’s;
i had a beer, got in the truck; then crossed
the border past an endless sea of pine, rocks,
and blue water mass. got stopped, wouldn’t
let us through. stayed at an airnb…
won loonies at some casino, tipped very well.
everyone asked us why we traveled north for spring break.
drank bulleit rye in a sauna and turned into a jerk.
got lost. got deals at target. watched
forensic files, ate pancakes, and we became
international travelers; drove to another country.
just like that, for a thought. and i don’t
know, thought i would recount that situation.
it was good. crossing borders, it was nice
seeing things outside of an america lens.
what i have learned since last Tuesday,
and the sunny Tuesday before that
which so unceremoniously passed,
is that when someone tells me something
is a true something, it usually is. the labels.
the fears. the concerns. impending doom,
obviously. the end. i understand that
it usually is, and not just some spectacle
to make you watch over there. or closer.
i mean, no one ever cries wolf anymore.
no one really gets paid to say. or maybe i’ve
wasted 2 years of my life for their chance at 4.
or maybe the 67 bus will arrive late today,
so i can wait longer. man, my good ambitions.
and nothing ever changes. here comes the sun
slowly shedding light onto such fancy.
on the early TV alone
with my whole rolled oats
sometime this morning
i wonder about
photography of our great city.
or the station programemed me that.
how on earth does one
get a book on all channels
during election season
at the most opportune time,
just months before
holidays like christmas–
where this sort of
coffee table aesthetic is hot?
what kind of names to know?
i mean i want to publish to pay.
oh, and Prince died
and Babes In Toyland are best friends,
just picture that. those stills.
i kind of want to check out his title.
i kind of want a ticket
to that museum to see
the innards royalty didn’t
want anyone to see, privacy: Paisley Park.
now just for money.
seemed like a good guy,
seemed like an artist,
i wonder about connections,
i wonder how this time
on these networks is arranged…
call me, let’s set up a time.
now my oatmeal sets in its bowl,
now the weather and something new.
Blair Walsh is being challenged.
tell us to vote and who for.
read between the programs.
what new text should i buy next?
sunday, when candles burn,
when tired rugs sleep,
when time does nothing
but crawl forward
to the coming future,
when tomorrow is another monday,
much disliked, much despised,
and talk is always so drably
forlorn– such a tragedy.
this is when and how
i beg for ice 9,
i pray for a time machine
to instill religion in me better,
to make sunday slow sabbath.
i could smile longer.
i could be more kind.
i have faith in hope and fate
on this dark dreary sunday,
when i think of new seasons
as plasticed windows droop.
mornings like these
leaves come crashing
through the limbs
of stiffening trees
where fat squirrels
bound like jack rabbits
in search of
something to call winter shelter
inside the silhouette paint
of an autumnal tie-dye day
inside, they spin at change
what sound of cut silence
delineated by robins call
a bus, the 67 going by,
and a “V” flown southeast
our house cat mows grass at
my pale naked feet,
on some cool broken sidewalk
merely rented–what to own?
entryway of flowery vine
as stairs coming alive
at this venture of fallen
dead photosynthesis–dry leaf dying
i imagine if it
thought to spark a moment
in the morning mind
of some drifter standing
i imagine it like
it was some actor being told
to “ACTION!” by
some muted invisible god
in the distance biding its time
(fall to the set)
meet melting pot america.
meet freedom of speech.
meet upset by freedom of speech.
meet why so mean america?
meet wow, i am confused.
meet holy shit, what freedom?
meet let’s change this idea.
meet we try to do and do right.
meet not broken don’t fix it.
meet individual in a group.
meet thoughts of talk and action.
meet make, make, make, and make.
meet comes with the territory.
meet that’s life, so they say.
meet i love Dr. Seuss…
meet cry baby, why baby?
meet the reality that is, and why.
meet why change, instead love.