ere the cold wind
hardened person debacle,
i become less like
those who represent me
and more like myself,
still running from its presence.
we are found, as errant snow
in misplaced cracks
along the street–
never should have been there.
at the bus stop proper
under pink and sable skies,
this industry: dying trees, real waits,
away from it all,
lights out in the house,
purely darkened for late payments.
a book stands in my side pocket,
slick along the turns,
a clear door opens, “Hello, sir.”
and then the same door closes again
to shield me from it.
ere the cold wind, just as
it touches me whole.
ere the cold wind
the 67 bus stop,
there is some
old ladies’ and
the to snow
day, and say:
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.
probably i think
i would protest personal vanity
put forth my actual self
and positive thought
as the world burns to said ashes,
as the sun goes out to black.
or probably i think
i might just sit where
i am, in regular shit.
figure it out closely,
a new way to complain
to go against
age old systems that
do affect us all,
(NO ONE IS SPECIAL)
in certain ways,
and learn myself how to
smile at the plight.
i could do all that, but
there is a house to clean,
there is work to be attended to,
there is love to make,
smiles to have,
bills to pay, food to buy,
student debt to fret,
clothes to mend, diapers to change,
poor property management,
thoughts to have to make
it happen like it should,
so i buy lottery tickets.
probably i think
to forget that thought,
and turn into a robot
no passion, no spunk,
just regular person,
no complaints, really,
just motion and task,
nothing not to love.
because they said dreams like that
are really just dreams,
so shut up and dance,
stop being so negative because
everyone is a known poet
arguing something, protesting everything
for there is air in their lungs
and everyone has ears.
so you are
just like everyone else,
and in ways, far better off
for having such a thought
and now they’re talking 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.
apparently our world
is crumbling to
the ballot scattered ground,
over clear democratic process;
i might understand that:
you win some, you lose some,
(the electoral college decides),
you comfort and console some,
you congratulate and celebrate.
or ~300 in St Paul may protest.
or a sheer silence thickens.
or Chuck Todd gets sad.
i don’t know, ask CNN how to feel.
standing, watching from low,
at a distance, there is nothing
to do, but observe the fray,
it doesn’t really matter…
like most, i am lost for words.
time to breathe in and smile.
we all made it through Bush anyway.
america will most likely move on.
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.
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.