The rounded mesas
were verdant sheen in predawn hue
and to the east
steam plumes were standing tall
and the sun
when it rose caught river currents
in the fore
so that they came
entwined to one another
on the earth,
the sun all aglow, sharp,
and the river a ghost mirror reflecting,
they were lovers
of common grounds
beyond whose husks melted worlds away
past all understanding.
The rounded mesas
morning sun came painting houses
down the block with its invisible brush,
a car sitting outside defrosted
its alabaster exterior,
and John Denver crooned to me thru Google Home
years before his plane crash demise,
talking of Colorado, reminding me of Coors Light–the beer.
Effulgent as the shines spire,
one that Ahab loathes, I realize Uptown
is still intact. Still too cool. Saw buildings rise
like noonday heat, anon, now, fast, quick, ungodly.
realized old ones, their stone facades
still gazed at the new, different,
removed crowd below. Same. something strange,
something with pretense; something–why, you, there!
and it was rocky mountain high and country road
take me home, something American,
something America. going here again,
i too am different. Same. eyes seen things.
notice the art of apology is dead, humor too,
notice tell of another hang-over had by all for naught.
something stirs and people
describe it in a way not the same, unique to them only.
not the same. not the same. as this area.
uptown is still intact.
uptown as a bit more jaded, me.
i love bacon on foggy sundays
talking about past “friends”
reliving vivisection nightmares
and discussing English language.
of course, in a room full of
nametags and coffee and questions;
we are all teachers together,
except i hold my head
and wait for my lenses to change colors.
of course, came in late
and i don’t believe in
your political beliefs
too busy haggling with customer service
finding use where their is none.
she rubbed her inner thighs.
the sun was out though.
telling people what i think-thought-theory
is a litmus test for your sanity;
without commanding a sharp group
and/or their thoughts simultaneously.
the clock didn’t have numbers.
touch fingertips when you’ve found a partner.
would rather tell google to play
“hold on for one more day”
than subscribe to what is
imagined outside of the bubble; i can see too.
i will eat the whole pig and its face too.
i really don’t care when it comes to food.
a survivalist eats it cold.
Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets Walker Texas Ranger.
and i love sundays and bacon
and waking up not from surgery
or extremely hung-over and broke
and having my wife and son
right here next to me.
i like getting paid.
i didn’t waste last night at a bar
trying to tell my “friends”
i believed in what they thought
so they could like me again
when i don’t.
would rather make enough money to sleep on,
would rather. and you can
find me with bacon and without.
you can find me smiling, ready.
no matter my surroundings
i find myself there.
our thick syrup is maple leaf
the greasey sausages of pork
new light cuts through pale smoke
of warm sun on the open porch
there are 10,000,000
of the same exact
what you want
to do… the same exact.
so, how do
what you have to
prove, the you
and what you do?
write about your
write about love,
or if you don’t feel it
fantasize about it;
society gives you truth.
(where is the lens?)
minimum parental leave,
as a dad,
diapers and breast milk,
little to no money,
full-time work with college debt,
no covered movement,
cis pale male,
i tell people what i think–
no promotion to climb a ladder,
and i make myself happy.
yet still for a poet
my plight isn’t
there are bigger memes.
more advertisement to be had.
so forget it.
now, it doesn’t matter.
one truly concerned for the truly concerned,
one acutely offended by the acutely offended–
about as Midwesterner as you can get;
avoiding one’s opinion, no need to mention.
an empty glass
with coins. $52.something.
turned into food.
the capital hanging
its pale dome
on the dim shoulders’
of University Ave
in the fore.
there, loving couples
at a cross-
and am now.
the statue of liberty
played by a man,
holding this bright sign:
we pay cash inside,
how american, on this corner.
i sit in a turn
pulling to the side,
brown bags and
local ipas in the trunk,
mouthing an old song
in Drive–mechanic’s glove hands,
tight grip on
the supple wheel.
all before 11 am
crossing Lexington Parkway
and light rail tracks
in St Paul, going, hungry, mad.
and then, thinking of
a hotel in Belfast
conversing continental divides
and the divided conversation,
and the painted murals,
people took photos
on their phones
inside of a bus because we couldn’t safely get out.