doing nothing is my god
watching the barometer’s metal bend
chasing words on a page
some milk goes sour
in time for the weather to come contradictive itself,
taste the notes of the coffee
some cheap shite, trash, yum, reflect…
my ecology is paycheck-to-paycheck, not endemic.
presuppose your days and ways,
the window fogs and steams, smeared.
shower tiles beads dew uncountable, attrition, music.
doing nothing is my god, our god, friend:
i worship, i love, and i don’t.
shoot the gap, you have the weekend!
i tell you secular and say “bless you” at a sneeze, really? đ
but work and leisure, two things;
what is the difference, don’t expound…
like those in a poetry workshop or modern English course,
i say nothing, do nothing, my god…
and of the apathetic sort.
Waiting for God-ot, nothing to do at all.
probably you haven’t read… because you don’t.
just like everyone else with the same ideas;
having the same idea is not diverse or unique.
what is god? she or he or preferred pronoun
is doing nothing too, a lot of it,
and getting praise worthy credit as well, dammit.
so, i’ll be here with my feet up high, relax.
you can worry about it for me.
i ain’t got much time, then pine box.
Dying symbolism and passing theoryÂ
Crumpled symbolism making it better in its descend to the grassy ground, I wonder about stopping something with that something and if it works out OK, Lorde, truly. Cellphone videos of fists and kicking, “peaceful”. Lines crossed. Helmets are weapons today. Comedians got one joke now. One Nation apart, distancing tomorrow. Ruined sheets. Egotistical egos. Hateful hate. Misappropriated tiki torches. Bad pants and industrial haircuts. Worse ideas. The days of just being ten fingers and eyes open and happy and content and broke and not concerned; the days of counting down to the alarm’s alarming, counting on something, to the dry desert flooded by hopeful theory and new belief. Cast away religion and makeup and history and what you were before. There is no news, same old. Different focus today. Something about under the sun. Who doesn’t want more, can i see a show of hands? Notice me too. Not that sign! to change the mind and find no pleasure in no appeasements, no pleasing the cannot be pleased. Straw-man, Instagram wants me back and I want peace and world love and for everyone to just dance hand in hand again because we love each other and we want something better, or what used to be a dream.
What a deal/Minnehaha WestÂ
The shouts of abuse
Heavy weed smoke
Wet walking steps
Dog’s bark & police sirens
Piqued me from
My book of the Essex
Here I go and stir
Couched in an evening
My blood-wine lips grow fast pursed
& these achy nudist feet come crossed;
Where singing loud truths cause hurt,
And our quiet moments are still sought.
watchman moon
Times I wait at home under
orange moon skies, waiting
waiting waiting. for you.
cheap breakfast (over a hot stove in quiet peace frogtown usa, why for fruit and eggs and butter and spice and time and memory)
my morning of foreign language speak spoke
wrapped with a stale beer-feel haze
and cut fruit–tomato, bad reviews, and 2 fried eggs
and contrived paddlewheels
at St Paul later; i am meeting to mend broken pinion gears
for inconsequential yard work
and forget the past
which does not affect us,
so remember not to forget.
with fork turned knife, i cut the
fragile membrane and watched it ooze and
sluice yellow the barebones plate: perfect presentation,
where is Gordon Ramsey when you need him? fuck.
if only for toast–
but they say processed carbs are so bad
with guesswork lexicons,
and so is not just agreeing with…
but dont talk those politics out loud in public,
they could hurt your morning stomach,
could hurt your local pride,
could hurt you like if you were that red fruit right there
unresponsive, go letting out,
about to be devoured by something much bigger
than you could ever truly imagine
and only for cheap breakfast
next to lowly coffee more precious.
Conversation with DanÂ
Daniel says there will be a student debt bubble, i dont necessarily agree; students are always in store. I am telling him about faked passports and ICE and he tells me of international dogs flying.
You think it’s goodÂ
Days, another day to do what we can to do what we can, trash can out, can water the plants, cheque for daycare can, can or shall we begin? More than the bottom run, just less than the top. We are in the spot called basically limited incentives, call me something else. You think it’s good.
if monsters could leave the city
oh tru morning between aging cof
fee and covfefe and chuck dick,
one resignation away from a full deck,
and the meeting the Washington press
people who are good actors–
i mean really fucking good actors,
for saying things like fair and
balanced like a fat thumb on
the honest scale but it doesnt matter.
not like the gamma rays cutting,
not like a baby bouncing new teeth
through the clouds haloing above
the old trees and cut grass: lawn boy:
a broken pinion and the late sunday paper.
more gas on the ground than in it,
more save the world than wtf? locally
heard a domestic disturbance yesterday,
saw someone stealing a mainstreet car.
i suppose if i dont shave
the people who i teach in China wont care
probably wont notice beyond my American smile…
coffee again, father john misty again;
i like the art on the vinyl.
car parked in our odd garage.
monday take out our hot garbage.
so many movements to make,
only got to make movements.
i want to take the time to watch the snake
eat itself slowly as they say bye bye Betsy–
to hear her say she wont have it,
and i think what does
she think of party-made monster,
probably should get through Frankenstein,
probably should hideout somewhere.
or like a scapegoat leave the country.
if monsters could leave the city.
