Posts tagged ‘commute’

January 26, 2018

waiting for the green line train at west bank station in the snow and cold and heat around 4:36 p.m.

the smell of a late afternoon lunch
enough, enough for snow to melt
imagining debt without a time clock
or vise versa–in some time only fixated…
dusting between keys on a keyboard, jet black
creating something like this, and that, unnoticed unawares
moby-dick for meaning of meaningful meaning
they tell me i have books to pick up
some stand on the shelves like straight soldiers
some crack like and egg in my hand at breakfast
they tell me have a good weekend & we just got over the flu
google will better my photo of West Bank, only soon
words won’t come so easy after that tune
some things just look better in digital format
i will wait for the train, again, here
amongst people who wait for the train, again, here
praising not having to wait for her, once were
wondering what’s in that guys hand, that guys bag
no one puts things on the floor anymore
picking up my little man
waiting for another to arrive–O’ plans: we had
and he asked me what i was eating as if it were bad
i told him what and who made it, of course
man my stomach was starting to feel good just then
thought this before the train came.

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January 20, 2018

some new problems came up on the 16 bus, so did you think the snow was bad, tell me what you think about the weather and the Vikings games i need to forget everything else and pretend everything is awesome…

snow out the window sinks
tightens and stretches
like the budget that we forgot to mention.
a 16 bus floats down University avenue,
Green Line aside; all the bars i can’t visit.
man behind the wheel says peek-a-boo
and hello and hey and whistles.
“i’ll stay inside for the Superbowl,”
but it’s triple overtime i think, line the pocketbook.
guy who doesn’t pay the fare: he looks like you!
i know, i love it and smile to my self.
in a basement studio with no meaning.
in a basement studio language, meaning, lofty.
to Aldi for diapers pickles and popcorn.
no more phone, calls on Google Home.
what if god was one of us? just a sloth like one of us.
2018 tragedies carried over from last year and the 90s.
i want to be bob dylan, i want everyone to love me.
everybody wants to be cats. dance the silence…
that’s just about as funky as you can be.
still the tears pile up.
they are puddles piled as metaphors high as the sky.
some other poet could write it better probably.
one thing goes wrong, next a million.
who isn’t tired, who isn’t trying their best?
no worries though, budgeting.
never been on a better diet, 3 notches in my belt.
grow muscle, grow bitter about society, lose weight: dad diet.
friends wives call to sell health, well…
tell the ads to go to hell.
we literally can’t afford to buy anything right now, for years.
AND i thought we were friends?
new phone, sorry who is this, i lost your number again…
shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
the snow sinks and turns to brown water.
all thoughts of fall and crisp leaves and warm sleeves.
please help me make the rent so i
can make the daycare so i can teach English
and get 7 on reviews when i need a 10
and their internet is at fault, shithole internet.
i wonder if it is mine and speed test and it’s fine.
project Fi treats me like a child.
i am blue davy dee davy da… blue.
my bank treats me like indentured servitude.
then reading memos on fact-based privilege.
tell me more about me that i don’t know about me.
the way i go, i am a pale robot, i am a terminator.
with emotions, with new days, between oceans.
the way i go i talk about the snow.

January 13, 2018

Fact: in Minnesota, the bus is always late in the cold, and later the colder it is…

i was telling the ladies at daycare
about how the bus
always comes 20 minutes late
when it is cold out.
like now, it comes half-an-hour later, guaranteed;
when it perfect out the bus comes on time…
the colder it is out
the later the bus arrives.
and this isn’t a joke this is real, scientific method real, tested.
this is an actual fact.
they asked so i told them, i love our talks.
he made it, great, goodbye.
but the truth is
one would figure these waits would get better
now that the Superbowl is coming to town.
but i guess not. not for the peasants.
us in servitude, making it to work and back
not having the magic platinum tickets, not insiders.
have to wait on ice packed glaciers between snow drifts.
global cooling is giving me frostbite and making me bitter.
across from the Goodwill at Fairview, near
some abandoned shopping cart excursion,
son in stroller, meth-addict twitching, calling
the Google schedule bullshit, smoking a cig.
don’t these things come every 20 minutes or so…,
give me a break–i mean seriously,
i don’t need this in my life,
no not when it’s negative 20.
then it floats up when you are moments from death, asking god.
this is, even while being secular and skeptical.
i think of summitting Everest and wait longer.
you know i probably could with this training.
though the oxygen tanks and Sherpa, i need them now.

May 9, 2017

Calm as commute

A book a companion
at the green line station,
morning forming,
read about bike takeovers
and locally staffed
coup d’etates last evening.
No taverns, no problem.
Consorted sorts,
fly as sunder as an American flag
in varied weathers. I love it.
Such a wonder.
Wont be the last to say it.
Love the station empty
and a good read. Companion. No politics to call
me by. No movements
save for on steel tracks–there and back.
No time to think or steer or do.
Sit back. Relax.
At the green line station waiting.
At the station growing patient.

April 15, 2017

Travel to La Crescent, Minnesota

why not leave at 6:30 pm
or 6:38, or whenever time,
no time no matter no worry,
cant think for not?
we go in wetting droplets,
Gods globulars hung at our mirrors
sluiced in the whatnot, and everyday.
Lexington Parkway traffic,
homeless with signs, traffic,
dampness seeps in the traffic,
94 traffic to 52 south.
we were full to the brim; kitchen sink.
sometimes i feel bad for them.
sometimes i feel bad for me.
more of want of wont of need, both agreed.
sometimes everything is always run on monies
so i work harder on Mondays come and see me.
Antony and the Johnsons loudly
and a Fistful of Love… you have never heard of.
the things we dont know are more poignant.
cut across a freeway, no freedom
on our way along the way to see some,
temped by wiperblade and dead deer viscera–
something scattered last week and foul
something old and brown and our future.
losing light like the night.
more south, St Charles, Rochester,
more south, Preston, Rushford, Houston,
into the deep croaking valley green
spawned ever by these roiling storms
kind that would hard driving make
then here now true.
i always wish to dine in Nodine.
then there on the hillside:
a blazing hot cross that says fuck you in passive aggressive
to the spoiled lot that whined about it from WI
extinguished from their special sensitive gaze.
a train that i didnt see but heard blew on by–
must be a metaphor for something…
look at that rambler, i want it.
we can leave whenever to wherever
but when we make it well know for not.
But when we left didnt matter really.

*
come to theorize:
perhaps Dale Earnhardt’s death
was the 9/11 of NASCAR…

March 24, 2017

my painting (even with tired eyes)

i woke up this morning
thought about
painting a painting,
put the colors in it,
gave it detail,
and so it was.
minor moves in maelstrom.
then i called it my own
and asked for a museum,
a place for it to
be put up in,
a place for it to call home.
eye of the storm, so settle in.
and then i woke up again.
and then i found my painting.
and then i found my museum.
to the leeward we form.
looking at the mirror
even with tired eyes.
thank you for this day.

December 8, 2016

bundle up

ere the cold wind
hardened person debacle,
post-repast,
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.
swirling excitedly
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.

April 20, 2016

Passenger at the Bus Stop along Hennepin

Our center of life
is constant, steady movement.
Passing along I reflect.

February 17, 2016

different as you (ne commute)

a small video
starts up,
so i start
my day.

any day
feels a little
better,
created
new life.

past spires
and beige
brick
history.

& a landlord
could
shut the
heat

at this
warming
time in
the season.

& someday
is here,
not gone
as many;

artists still
starve,
and keys
keep ticking.

to write
it all down,
different
as you.

no complaints.
no complaints.

and stoplight.
and go.

January 27, 2016

Driving to Work

in the mornings
before i drove
to work
i used to
listen to the
traffic report
on the radio
and laugh.

i had this idea
that it didn’t
effect me,
that i was
so far above
this kind
of busy commute.

now it does.
in my capsule
i sit, watching
attentive, close,
as i never
wanted to.

i drive with
conviction, i go
at each turn.
i know what it
is like to worry,
to be considered
a shark.

biking was never
this way, it was
i who needed
to watch over
my shoulder;
now i must see
and assess
everything.

i must do the
impossible,
i must be constant,
aware, and
one hundred
percent,
always.

a bus would
be nice,
biking in winter
now isn’t
realistic,
the truck is
what i have
to go to,
this luxury.

the radio tells
it straight,
“side roads
are slow and go…”
i used to laugh,
now i sweat;
i used to cry,
now i mumble.

the pleasure of driving,
and they don’t
even attempt at
calling
the stress.

the pleasure
is all of
mine.