Posts tagged ‘Dad’

April 18, 2018

eye forget

Individual on a library chair cross-legged, slanted posture, defined by my hue too. glued to this book of content unknown, under clouds too. hoping as you. not fearful of that, so they say. spread open again, flesh book, i grin. same name. no change. i don’t even remember me then. i wont begin to explain. this amnesiac has too much hunny, too little time, nothing to rhyme… vinegar for mind. we all do at times. as valued by how scarce it is; here is a free poem. no wonder im broke. on this chair seeing knowledge is the most valuable resource; cant sell those wares. bare. anyway. one day my eulogy or headstone will say: he was good at Twitter, people liked his stuff on Facebook. all prone. but not with that. it’s important. that media won elections and stole our souls. butt eye forget two.

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March 9, 2018

north woods and north shore

i’d like to escape
north woods, northshore
past Duluth, past the ships,
the mini sea
comes into view, comes to mind.
all past-life in the rearview.
empty agendas found blank,
just wake lapping at the shores
where red rocks are shone.
through arched tunnels, further,
Two Harbors, Castle Danger.
a million years in a minute gone by.
how did it happen?
i’d like to escape like lava from crust
to create this Superior lake,
this setting. read it in books as a kid.
the Edmund Fitzgerald and 28.5 barometric pressure.
time’s i can’t take city’s measure.
but these thoughts save me mostly.
nothing but canary lines on the highway: open road.
would go to Lutsen, dad would, drink Hot 100 in a Jacuzzi.
he’s gone too. long gone.
would show the earth’s curve to
flat-earthers to prove them,
as we ate Betty’s pies, or famous pizza,
all the way to Grand Marais.
i don’t know. maybe go
along the snaking Gunflint Trail
to where the road ends, way up there, and
think about finding that square rock
which came into view like some ancient monster on
Lake Sag, i don’t know. Ghosts bobbing in white caps.
still looms in my head when i think
about catching bass or time to put my feet up,
or about my father and what he
would be doing now. i’d escape.
i’d find it. and why not?

January 18, 2018

I wonder how much #Wordpress makes for these advertisements…

we are the coffee pot high marks,
cold shower goose pimples,
cold shell outdoors,
adverts between posts
machines making money, the most,
and living on piqued hopes.
i wonder where they come from?
reality attuned–or askew?
skilled in many topics,
including topics like you,
including flying to the moon,
including AC in June.
but that’s logic anyway.
still no idea really.
can’t care: too many mouths to feed.
too many days not fishing,
too many walks in the weeds.
i still see my dad in me.
haven’t visited that stone though.
like elvis, tupac, and biggie.
somewhere exotic, secret home, alone, you know.
i am cheap coffee grounds, again.
barely breakfast, usually little lunch.
no inheritance.
words between ads that don’t pay me.
but i pull for that company.
thanks wordpress.
thanks, now i care.

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.

December 8, 2017

best thing ever (dadlife)

being a dad is the best thing ever,
every day is the set of Home Alone;
toys every where and not.
laughs like me, cant believe.
leftovers make a secular search for god.
wondering what people do w/o progeny.
here: smiles, hugs, kisses, squeals.
away from family: a wasted life, my ideals.
my identity politic is father, parent–never stop.
is there a movement for me, a protest?
daycare should have been a savings plan.
healthcare should be for free.
i am a parent too: parental leave?
these are minor things for the positive he brings.
always, i get to come home to
the idea of raising a new person.
of giving everything for someone else.
of not caring about what
everyone has to say about bullshit that doesn’t matter,
only a little man who speaks baby
and doesnt judge hard and
can tell all with paralanguage
that he has a poopy or pee-pee or he cant sleep.
(well neither can i, but i cant change it. ;))
or that he loves me. no stranger gives you that.
no group can make you feel.
no great positive review, book of poetry, no other adoration.
no award is worth it in so many ways.
write some modern prose about that if you can.
if you havent i suggest you try.
i dont miss wasted hours in bed anymore.
confused about where. now, i am me, standing.
happy to be here and have a buddy.
happy to wake up and know
that i have to be my best so he can too.
nothing like it in the world.
its something to see.

November 18, 2017

ghosts cannot kill

life after life
life after this coffee is gone, slipped out of its cup
computer screens bleeping, drama queens screaming
after a walk in the woods, after silence
thoughts of my father
pop up like mushrooms in spring,
me as a father now especially
as that one spire, strident, fixture in my life
once was, as afraid of the dark
as bumps in the night, he stands there
dead eyes, calming, voided, silhouette doorway
telling me the same thing he told me to make me feel safe:
a ghost has never killed anyone in the history of time,
no one has died from seeing a ghost,
and if i were going to die i would have done it by now
he told me that without exaggeration
i wonder are they real
or are they just gone when they are

July 3, 2017

Useless thoughts

Probably we should protest high rents
Or how fathers dont get maternity leave
Or how class divides us: rich and poor
But no matter, we are already distracted

June 19, 2017

dads day

i didnt really get to say much about my dad
on father’s day, but he was a good person.  
biggest funeral la crescent will ever see.
that is with me.  now after 3 years underground
many conversations removed
the same inscrutable believings of what he would have wanted
and everyone trying to get over on that too.
its hard to give reason, excuses or meaning to.  
things, they: just happens.  are how it is.  …and people die.  
yeap, and then i sit here thinking hard
and envision my everything vanish quickly;
was naked in a motel room hungover watching tv getting calls
and i become him for two seconds
hoping that some evil stepparent wouldnt take everything.  
no surprise, it costs currency to see me now;
i am a reborn materialist because
a lots been taken, lost.  it takes unhinged
strength to drive up past grandmas house
and see strangers for the caretakers of where i grew up
unknowing of the past ills and hollowed dust.  
sort of like mine once, how to usurp everything.
the saint-gaudens eagle, the burnt will, the rent to feed mouths.
it makes me soft like nursing homes and very bad news.  
thats why i don’t say much about it anymore.
maybe some day i might change my mind.
maybe some day it wont matter.
maybe some day, anyway.

May 28, 2017

Moon man

Im sure
that
when my dad died
he didnt die
he moved to the moon.
He builds planes
there not rockets.
Flies them too.
Sort of stranded tho.
Even when we see a sliver
hes up there.
Waiting.
Working hard.
Getting stronger,
ready to tell a good story.
He does that.
Just up there alone,
cold, thought of.
I wonder when hell come back down.
He told me
of men on the moon
and heaven
in some valley
somewhere
but long ago.
See him up there?

May 13, 2017

he died doing what he loved

the day before my dad died
my grandma told me to call him,
she handed me the phone and i dialed.
he answered and asked me to visit him in Lanesboro.
per usual, of course i couldnt,
i was busy marrying my cousin
and her new husband,
i was to fish brook trout and hunt morel
at an expansive farm in Highland, MN.
he told me about how midget strippers
were from that area
and he told me he could fly me in a plane
back to the Cities on Sunday. and he could truly.
but i get sick on planes, ex: my whole life.
i would tell him that so he didnt feel bad.
i laughed, so did grandma–a-mid-dementia.
now the cat barfs on the windowsill in St Paul
and i cant move to clean it.
you read, he told me this story.
that was the last i knew of his soul.
now i want an old motorcycle and three kids,
i want a lot of land in the countryside
and to own my own business, sort of like him.
i want to tell rude stories and make people laugh.
all around me is this fabric to weave,
even that old dreaded piece of a phone call
i hide because it worries and bothers
and turns me 4 years younger, less jaded and
more naive. i see him leaving every day is a possibility.
i just wonder when he will come back.
and some believe in ghosts and gods and scripture,
i havent seen much in the way of poltergeists or apparitions;
the afterlife exists now in tongues and no more.
i only feel the ones i never knew
and could care less to just pass
and call my imagination gone astir
or drunken views taken in the timid darkness.
i heard he died doing what he loved a lot,
and when that happens they say it is good.