Posts tagged ‘Blog’

April 27, 2018

3A then up como to st albany

… the 3A stop then
over washington i float
from under
a bridge, light rail
lights spark ultraviolet purple.
winding away from it all.
Mississippi spiral java white foam below.
crackle, hum, bump, buzz. thump.
transit lines like veins spreading to midway limbs.
i head away to daycare near a lake.
crowds by the fair grounds, police waving traffic.
to a stray dog in a parking lot,
sniffing at trash, people with odd stares.
maybe not stray, wears a collar.
calling to say i made it, where are you?
we are talking of Oswald and weather,
“…they said it was supposed
to rain today, but it’s clear
over here.” Yeah, there’s a cloud
over my head, no melancholy intended.

i always say i am starving.
it’s a good way to lose weight to stay in shape.
phone to my face. that dog barked.
i jumped, embarrassment, scaredy cat.
i walked to the back entryway door.
opened it. read the letters stuck with tape.
smelled of diapers and lotion and food.
a church now a school, then dark, very.
same thing. same thing. same thing.
then we all met and left.
in the shadow at that stop back there.
before i left i thought:
i take the 3A now, not the light rail.

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June 12, 2017

basement vinyl reflection

there is no need to worry
my passwords are foreign languages
the spider webs cocoon me and beams
old light and new light dance just there
a records spins and pictures stand
miserable hours ago though
there is no need to worry exactly
florescence from below, flowers grow
be bold, be bold, be own, old soul.
be alone, confluence with those.
just here skin and bones, skin and bones–all those
acting like they know but they dont
acting, just do it for the show, tho–
there is no need to worry
there is no need to hurry
and then i think about it some more
begin to sweat, begin to whittle
my fragile courage into tooth picks
sitting in a creaky chair and staring
on the floor at my feet in the dust
and the record spins and goes
more of me gone trying to find it too

January 16, 2017

how to improve paying back your student loans: an interaction about income-driven repayment

i just spent the
last ten minutes of my morning
talking
to Anthony from
StudentLoans.gov
about
how they could improve
their website’s user
interface and experience.
i said:
make repaying student loans
so easy that it
could be done on accident,
so easy that my mom
could pay it back
and it would be a surprise.
-you see, i said, i have a blog
where people can donate with a button-
no big site, no ads, just simple,
even you could donate…
then i told them
to have their bosses
contact me,
call me back,
i am free all day for MLK,
i would tell them about
reforming student loan repayments
for everyone dealing,
i told them i would
do it for free, no charge.
now i await their call, for everyone.

November 28, 2015

If Wishes Didn’t Exist

I wish so much that I could change it,
just as much as everyone else.
The way you want something
and you really can’t have it.
Like to be independently wealthy,
or have the perfect dream job.
Only because in impossible ways
these entities don’t exist.
That sort of fading obsession
eventually becomes you—you are it.

In the morning from a deep sleep
the thought travels lifetimes
between two eyes, bounds up over
synapse, carries to perspire.
It is in you. And although it is there,
the momentary chill of outside air
seeing a banded local paper folded,
resting, stirs shivers, takes you away.

Some aspects are unavoidable,
some are just there to be taken.
Here is the La Crosse Tribune and
its pointed, objective, new words.
Picking up the rag, I head back inside.
I pull the band loose with fingers
and go at the emboldened headlines.
Thinking: how useless is a wish?
Thinking: it doesn’t really matter.

June 26, 2015

How I write poetry

Could they hear me at the desk oozing prose onto the page,
clipping hard at the keys for grammar,
few words and blank space,
giving my all just for free writing?

Had they known my walk through the pre-day skyway,
the negative eighty degree cooler I passed—I am like that: cool and old.

Had they been blinded by a window’s reflection
or kissed their love before exiting a truck?

Could they feel the concentration,
the poise,
the inspiration,
of each line, in each book
held in heavy hand?

White came black, black came red—what you read this heap (?),
red turned pale, then yellow, then green—the fear, coming out of me.

This was it,
the beginning of the end,
and I had just opened Word
to give my fingers a stretch.

How coffee, how Grape-Nuts, how banana,
how milk, how ab workouts and a tepid shower
had been the muse to it all.

My body in the morning, my morning.
They hadn’t known.

Or at least that’s what I thought.

June 22, 2015

St. Anthony Waste

Sour leather bands synched
in a veiled humidity,
swam this Midwestern oven,
doggy paddle for fluid strokes.
Rolled windows on St. Anthony
caught a trash truck soup
of faintly fanned aroma sweet
under parted clouds;
cloy cutting, putrid, pungent,
unforgettably at the tip of your tongue,
in the holes of your nose.
Fumes came from plastic bags ripped
and cardboard boxes smashed
telling of domestic unimagineables,
making way to the forefront,
aggressively introduced,
and not leaving soon.
Remnants pressing,
pushing through the city;
parts of me, parts of you—
the powers of summer heat sparked
a sickening knotted perfume,
lingering in the air,
in these communities tight knit.

June 15, 2015

Failing a Foreigner

A wavy reflection at the Dunn Bros. storefront up Como
left me marveling at open beauty,
left me a helplessly stumbling fool,
left short words of: I am not from around here,
left a lady in a little black dress with a thick accent saying,
“Cheers!” and walking on.
Inside I palmed a hot cup of coffee
with new found direction,
“thanks man”, I said, as I dropped a buck into his tip jar,
after he had scrolled his iphone for the address of our location.
I went outside again, to help.
Gray skies had left her gone as I stood puzzled in the space
of thick fonted glass at a doorway threshold.
I thought of how useless I was to a foreigner as my liquid cooled.
How American of me,
I am not from around here, but just down the road.

May 21, 2015

Pre-Open Mic on Nicollet Avenue

Streetlamps poured
a waxen yellow glow on the Nicollet Avenue scene below,
as above heavens danced and sparked white
as now onlookers stood and watched.

The hum of vehicular masses turned to a city of cratered paths,
while people were lit as props, good and evil,
coming and going about their static business.

This nature in society, framed, isolated—what we have;
metal grasps of synthetic hands
coming to and shaping us,
to make up our wake up, to shake up our trust.

Bleeding oil, exhausting fumes,
killing cows, and loud preaching fools;

we exist as a populous,
with meaningful purpose, and American sentimentalism.

Illuminated here by streetlamp’s waxen yellow glow, on Nicollet,
under heavens about to open wet,
mingling with ghosts of our yesterday,
with whole cultures of churches and states to thank.

Amen.

May 10, 2015

It was Highland in a Nutshell

It was wet cans of PBR from a Coleman cooler
and pulls of Bulleit whisky warm
on a Friday night.

It was green Jalapeño poppers wrapped in fatty bacon
next to glistening short-cut rib rows
in a twilight kitchen.

It was pickup trucks frolicking in rusted skirts
over deep grass fields,
while hunters gathered fungi at the midday shade.

It was alabaster ashes of last evening’s fire
smoldering, becoming ghost stale
near metal pasture gates left wide open.

It was small brown trout caught in cold streams
bleeding, below an Amherst hillside
melting in the last light of a springtime Saturday.

It was Driftless region bluff’s strong straight-wind
carrying Johnny Cash’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down”
into folding valleys asunder from a driver’s side window.

It was a weekend’s mosaic of moments,
laced in and strung up together,
of oscillating seconds and intrinsic perspective.

Oh, it was…

May 7, 2015

Lilac Blooms

A pressing breeze caressing Lilac blooms consumes me,
as morning nature sway past an open window freely.