things are pretty hard now…
like buying a house in St Paul
before the 2017 housing market collapse
or opening an English muffin
to make a counterintuitive egg sandwich,
i am wondering if last-week’s leftovers will
make me sick today.
aver that’s how we relate.
legs hurt from kickball and surprises as of late.
head feels like empty pockets
rotting root canal sockets
and a hungover English lesson
on technology through technology
because of technologies outdated;
maybe i’ve taught more than you,
been called “teacher” too,
and still don’t know what to do.
trying to not be the biggest fool
in the biggest fool theory.
i want to build equity
and they want to build an effective wall.
watching for the collapse, the black hole trap.
tooth killing me, what bite.
much to laugh on, no more fight.
you can find me smiling at tragedy.
you can set your robin free.
i found a garden hose
at the corner walk
took it home and saved some money.
there is so much time to go outside.
it will either happen or it won’t.
whatever happens is supposed to.
and i don’t even know if the lawnmower will start.
at the end of the day their speech pattern is the same.
things are pretty hard now…
you should read more about it.
even if you lose,
the 67 bus stop,
there is some
old ladies’ and
the to snow
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.
perhaps, in a country where we have made it
to meticulously disrupt and replace
those in far-off scapes
to be concerned for. think of that day
that hasn’t happened yet, and be worried.
i am no grant writer,
i keep a simple blog;
as an unsolicited writer,
carte blanche & song.
i think you should write too.
i read the newspaper
from the bottom up,
each sentence slowly,
word for word
left left left left…
one at a time
to make the story
come out differently,
better, in hopes
for posterity and that.
well, no such luck.
and on a rainy gray day.
when i reached the top
i found that
i was at today’s date,
& still confused,
& still wondering at
how fiction could appear
so viscerally spun.