when Facebook is stealing our faces
and phones are stealing our minds
we can find ourselves together in protest
or we can ask for help, and stand in line
i just spent the
last ten minutes of my morning
to Anthony from
how they could improve
their website’s user
interface and experience.
make repaying student loans
so easy that it
could be done on accident,
so easy that my mom
could pay it back
and it would be a surprise.
-you see, i said, i have a blog
where people can donate with a button-
no big site, no ads, just simple,
even you could donate…
then i told them
to have their bosses
call me back,
i am free all day for MLK,
i would tell them about
reforming student loan repayments
for everyone dealing,
i told them i would
do it for free, no charge.
now i await their call, for everyone.
the creation of blood & flesh;
how it feels to be a new god.
sometimes a person needs
a new pair boots,
needs to fix
what has been broken
needs to rid themselves
of the old soles
with something other
than another fix;
shed skin, sink hulls.
a thing entirely new.
smelling of plastic
and soft chemical.
and O’ feet feel so much better now.
and O’ a few bucks flew away.
walking on, like butter.
walking straight away.
god, i am not a religious man,
sort of, but i use that terminology
oft to express the feelings of being
in negative cold to retrieve recycling bins
…thought were misplaced because
of horrible vision, getting
the “non-transferable” envelopes hopes,
the kind that are big and feign of checks
to you–the kind you need. the fucking trip
to the door was worth it, i noticed
a missing gutter and my hands froze
on blue plastic and the pumpkin eaten out
from last fall was dead. but god,
getting these letters, offers of credit cards
and debt paid… you want to do it?!,
just do it; hit the donate button:
it’s that easy. these companies. i wonder
who folds the envelope, mails it,
i wonder who licks the seal,
i wonder who cuts the trees
that get torn and thrown into my trash,
too angry and lazy for the recycling.
tell me about an offer on a nice home
because my rent is crushing me,
tell me about free college
because it’s about time for our kids.
and think of those fucking trees!
you won’t… i guess just keep sending
the special offers, to no response,
they inspire, i guess. god. god. god.
wake up to routine,
OK Google, play morning jazz.
watch people kiss at the
drop off spot.
it’s cold, there is ice–messages, go outside…
tie shoes and salt the walk.
change diapees of all sorts.
my son makes more art
than the lot in the books
than the lot on the poster
than the lot at the press
than me, and yes, i wrote that
and it’s exclusive to your publication
and i won’t send it
to anyone else, i promise.
no more surprises.
she asks me why i don’t wear
a jacket in 9 degree weather
to fill up the gas tank
so the fuel line doesn’t freeze overnight,
i don’t want to be restricted.
i want to not be cramped.
i just want to make ends meet
even if they have no interest
in meeting and becoming friends
and they just try to avoid
that moment, which i have set out so boldly
to make a reality, on my account.
wake up to routine,
OK Google, bring me a beer.
and deconstruct structure–
wood, screws, metal, shelves, etc.
they tell me i look nice in a blazer.
into packs cramped.
trying to be more free as i freeze
if you would just let me,
it only takes habit and a moment.
i guess it’s really just regular prose
and words and pictures scrawled from pen,
something so familiar anyone can do it;
an email a doodle on a notepad and then
put on white paper easy font some poetry
use your smartphone to capture the art
put it out to the world as if a superstar composed it
as if they were the best ever, sure they probably
know some publishers, probably slick in the biz,
that is the wonderful and talented rupi kaur too
but far more she creates and creates and creates,
words and ideas that come close to home
so familiar to those scrolling, tweeting
and sharing social media professionals,
because it was geared towards them,
it is designed for them like cat food is for cats
because there is market for inspiration:
to change the most of days and our acute minds.
my words involve coffee and hard sentences
chocolate–very dark, if i get very lucky,
and prose that no one knows, literary landscapes–
as if a hydrogen bomb went off on some shakespeare,
blew away the good art, took away the drawing,
and the respected namesake and time,
left a placeholder we did not understand
asking for donations to create breast milk
vonnegut, harrison, bukowski, niebeling, melville
and diapers, because that is how trendy one is
and lower case and lack of punctuation and.
everyone else can do it too, we can relate.
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.