i knew what it felt like to be a ghost,
or an earthbound flower,
all information, all the time
on these matters: doxing and politics,
when that is all we absorb in our bones.
where the oatmeal ran cold
below contemporary jazz notes
and a vase full of roses.
here were also books in layers
onioned out over our wooden shelves.
and dying temptation had me
money in my pockets–full,
rich like those other in-tune saps,
unwanting and vainglory lame,
found doing the same ways,
for another 8 years with no change.
then i read through it entirely,
a children’s book saved me.
Fox In Socks again, very closely, and smiled,
we don’t do that enough;
it’s lonely at the top,
it’s quiet at the top,
other people hate the top–what hate(?).
humor, the distasteful, slop.
i think about time and how it escapes me,
i think if i could make it stop
and smell the fancied spring flowers
i’d want to make it start again.
i’d know that they were never really there.
modern days of trials and errors
never let you live it down;
beauty never seen, a flower underground.
i scaled the skin off of my feet
with some sponge
so i could sleep, this was 11pm.
i thought of how an acquaintance spoke of incompetence,
Putin, and being a gun-owner
all in one Letter to the Editor.
that is where you will find the news today.
you will not find sleep there.
you will find sleep in scrubbing clean.
my feet were in silent torment, sorrow.
i wonder about
how contagious this might be.
i wonder about the water down the drain,
where it goes
and how it makes me tired.
my toes dry straight up in twilight air
and the dim light of night
that sticks from a wall socket.
thank god for that creme.
and that others got real problems,
ones they can sleep on.
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.
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.
Sordid pieces of me to go
strewn about all days;
coming together now.
Such a puzzle to complete,
all things as newly breaking,
waves at water’s edge.
… Breathe. That’s it…
“Oh, you’re that poet!”
a life saver;
and I caught
we put it
dirty tips &
and a few
Two parts around
One part a few
Walking home with
half a sandwich.
Long Friday night
St. Anthony main.
in front of me.
I’ve seen doors locked for all time,
purpose in moments changed,
and boxes closed indefinitely
with familiar occupants inside.
Yet, still I lift my head in ice pellets
coming down on the campus mall,
and still my view is fixed straight-
forward when allowed, and with
this aside, and taking on alternatives.
I exist in a one bedroom apartment
in Southeast, brushing teeth, put-
ting my eyeballs in to see just this.
Things that concern me
more than anything else
stem as the thick roots
of a century old oak
grown through barbwire fencing
and around hardened stones,
immense on a hillside,
entrenched in pastoral lands
so deep and so bloodied, with its past,
it would be hard to tear out entirely,
even if uprooted
we could never forget.
It comes from death stares
so sharp your heart beats faster
and you sweat,
heads turn in a snap on the neck
at the question you just asked—
one which you just simply can’t,
in a place of research and academia,
a place where words like “fact”, “objective” and “truth”
float up as shit in
a waste facilities plant.
Even with air quotes in inquiry
a person couldn’t truly
couldn’t say a “group” idea
had nothing to do with
the individual raising a pale hand,
posing a pure question,
asking of a device with logic
used so precisely daily—
an openness that did not come to conclusions,
in ways that would affect me
up the street on the walk,
being called a “devil’s advocate”
See, I was bothered because I don’t
believe in the devil… or any Other god.
I pointed at my face and said,
“Just because I look like this?”
They answered with a nodding “yes”.
I told them it was nice
to have this conversation
and walked across the street
dreaming of epiphanies.