the 67 bus stop,
there is some
old ladies’ and
the to snow
day, and say:
today, Monday, will be
a little more quiet,
a little more
a little more silence,
of the Green Bay Packers
will be walking
in immense sorrow,
moping in their green
and gold regalia.
Today, i probably won’t
hear about the Vikings’
or (maybe) how
we have never won
Because yesterday we won.
But now, that doesn’t
cheeseheads roll tears,
their symbol, that
which attracts mice,
were simply defeated by
Washington, and “the wind”,
i guess any excuse,
i’ll give it to you.
your silence today.
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.
last night i picked up a Bukowski again and
read something from his THE CONTINUAL CONDITION
then i thought in the parking lot
after the lady behind me bought my lottery tickets
and dark coffee because
the guy behind the counter
in the unwashed and untucked shirts
didn’t know if they accepted credit cards
or not and the line grew,
and no more money came from my pants,
what is art?
rat is art
tar is art
tra is art
i guess anyway you look
at it, those letters are art.
and the lady in line said: take it, no just take it.
and threw $2 on the counter.
she had a gallon of 2% milk and was serious.
like any-thing is any-thing
perhaps decomposition of a loved one
since the year 2014 is art,
like pumping milk from a cow is art.
or maybe since the year 4201 is art.
i don’t know.
don’t i know.
i watched from the car
as breastfeeding went down in the lot
i didn’t want to be followed,
what a major calamity of sorts.
the gas station lights could
sense my growing shame and
how my patience was lost
in staring at walls or looking
for a cd that wasn’t scratched,
hoping for B.I.G..
crystalline frost formed on the vehicles
near the front lawn.
and i am happy they were there.
we rolled up late, an hour of stationary
before we got back on the road
and i tried to dodge deer
where brown and red smears said they died.
like the leaves piled and decomposing
they are tra, or rat, or tar
whatever you call it it is that.
like those bleeding hearts couldn’t take a loss.
like losing the lottery in america.
like driving at night with desert eyes.
like coming in late without an excuse.
like not needing one, but you do.
like knowing before others and pretending to not.
like apologizing for everyone like you for guilt, your guilt.
like feeling sorry that you don’t.
like telling people to move on in your shoes.
maybe that’s why we all drink coffee
and tell our friends what we think.
and one day the sun won’t spin,
so bring a few extra layers,
everyone will be there.
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.
i am no grant writer,
i keep a simple blog;
as an unsolicited writer,
carte blanche & song.
i think you should write too.