Fog of deep valley
drifts away from verdant bluffs.
Small town soul revealed.
Fog of deep valley
“Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about—however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way— either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.”
― Herman Melville, Moby-Dick
there are some times
i want to use
finger so bad.
i see it coming,
is watching, waiting,
my finger into
a balled fist,
put it away
for better judgement
this is what people
must feel like
when treated unfair,
i can’t do
what i want…
only because i have
been told i never
feel like that,
or have felt it ever,
still, my middle
finger is upset,
depleted of its work,
and put down,
in our new
but caste that observation
not unto others
my finger away perhaps
means tacitly to: fuck off,
tho, we feel
that this gesture
is always unacceptable,
yet i think.
(holds up middle finger while smiling)
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a saturday morning commute,
when i see high performance
dancing across deep potholes
in our weekend downtown,
i realize that maybe my feet
say more on a quick walk
in broken-open slip-ons
than my hands do on virgin leather,
and that’s was my judgement,
and at a cracked bus stop
some authentic wait lonesome
for jesus christ and good luck
surrounded by windows mirrored,
exhaustion and new day;
who wears the pants and such anyway?
i think all this betwixt coffee sips
driving along the way,
i take it in over “ordinary world”
and think of Scorsese death
while our wet ball spins
(do i need a car wash to appeal?)
and his Porsche turns before me;
the shine blinds, maybe size small.
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There is solidarity abroad
while a nation is divided.
There is difference assigned,
as senseless tragedies occur.
There are three colors shown
with pictures of broken glass.
There are groups crossing lines
with lists & scores outdated.
There is talk of how and why
and who and what, unknown.
There is confusion on screens
and some parts of the whole.
And we really wonder about us.
And we really wonder who that is.
Those trees of the backyard
Through a naked window
kicked at my eyes while a truck drove
busy and loud in my skull.
The white beer tent last night,
with its sugary high notes
and crisply set carbonation
caused splintered synapse today.
And those leaves were changing outside,
and Dirty Jobs was on the set
and life was passing by momentarily
as butter rested malleable on a knife’s edge,
and in the dish, on toast, on pancakes;
between a paper, and conversation
about how this generation doesn’t get it
from another which heard the same …
Now, yesterday’s ideology was stale as the open chips,
and contrived but real and there.
My kindergarten teacher was my bartender,
her pupils were standing years apart
and side-by-side amongst the crowd
as a cover band played Queen
and last week’s hit single.
A flea market set up where we played as kids,
and mom had to go to the fest grounds
to help the church in bright light fashion.
Text messages came through
as I pulled the rubber band
off of bold print fragile paper.
The headline spoke of what was outside:
the backyard, again, window earlier today
—I almost threw up—
remember new years day?
and the champagne and its pain?
On the set was tanning leather—
the wet kind, grey and grotesque;
and in that flowery prose
was a half-baked sentence
which balked at this fleeting instance
of happening nature.
He said just take these pills
and don’t mind the stale smoke smell
of that crumpled shirt at your feet,
an hour later my head
I dressed for the game,
and for the weather, and for the
cold fall to come.
It was a morning of remembrance
and a splitting headache,
thoughts of sweet beer and bubbles.
We were talking sorts in the dark,
in the night rain,
near tents and lights
Many questions now…
There were no awards for 3rd place
in the poker tournament…
We have the hardest time understanding
that we don’t understand.
It exists because you hear it,
or you hear it because it exists.
I remember feeding the horse,
and then eating food with my hands…
As a loading television allowed for novel thought.
days i wake bolt upright
nothing but happy.
it is here in southeast
or la crosse, or la crescent,
or whittier, or uptown
or dublin, or Washington Ave
where no one alive
can take that away.
nothing but happy here,
just to hit that snooze.
no one else.
A bright sun crawls over
a hot sunroof to meet
the working day,
as bulbs on a computer screen flash,
amass the made up page.
Men and women slip
become unaccounted for.
Unknowing they go, thinking alone,
believing in bold font & sharp tones—
subjective as fact, living each & every
day for a quick read, drink, and a sweet snack.
Then they are taken, as every other,
to a grand pasture, heaven.
Set out free on their own accord—
until a fence is met.
How quickly their heavy chains they forget,
how relaxed their time was spent.
They are mammals all the same,
animals until their dying day.
Shades of the trees toward western skies rest a cool shadow
on a once brilliant face,
where the lacquer for paint
Smack of fuzzed tennis balls hurled in the wind,
zipping with bugs in
a St. Paul end-summer August warm.
Reflections and shadows hung on until it was time
to go back home—
just after supper and just before
candlelight vigils and auto headlamps scans rushed
into closed windows and about vacant streets.
the world come to close another day,
morning would be the same except reverse
on those tired night dweller’s eyes.
A can was crushed and we biked back
to SE through mosquitoes.