there are 10,000,000
of the same exact
what you want
to do… the same exact.
so, how do
what you have to
prove, the you
and what you do?
write about your
write about love,
or if you don’t feel it
fantasize about it;
society gives you truth.
(where is the lens?)
minimum parental leave,
as a dad,
diapers and breast milk,
little to no money,
full-time work with college debt,
no covered movement,
cis pale male,
i tell people what i think–
no promotion to climb a ladder,
and i make myself happy.
yet still for a poet
my plight isn’t
there are bigger memes.
more advertisement to be had.
so forget it.
now, it doesn’t matter.
there are 10,000,000
one truly concerned for the truly concerned,
one acutely offended by the acutely offended–
about as Midwesterner as you can get;
avoiding one’s opinion, no need to mention.
mornings like these
leaves come crashing
through the limbs
of stiffening trees
where fat squirrels
bound like jack rabbits
in search of
something to call winter shelter
inside the silhouette paint
of an autumnal tie-dye day
inside, they spin at change
what sound of cut silence
delineated by robins call
a bus, the 67 going by,
and a “V” flown southeast
our house cat mows grass at
my pale naked feet,
on some cool broken sidewalk
merely rented–what to own?
entryway of flowery vine
as stairs coming alive
at this venture of fallen
dead photosynthesis–dry leaf dying
i imagine if it
thought to spark a moment
in the morning mind
of some drifter standing
i imagine it like
it was some actor being told
to “ACTION!” by
some muted invisible god
in the distance biding its time
(fall to the set)
ways like sleep in morning eyes
useless navigating kitchen
sweet as thick spooned honey raw
soft tongue to sharp tastes
amidst trailing bluffs above oil-rainbowed waters
where a man at the bow shot arrows at gar with a bow
a boy floated into the mind of a new man dad,
focused on churning barge death dealt
coming in cool crossed wakes,
water’s spray, fish gut aroma & cracked beers,
wetting the hand and drying the mouth,
jet boat reprieve wading at Stoddard calm—
above a dam, pissing swimming pants at the back,
speaking of motorbiking to Iowa for a pack of smokes
and a gallon of water, going 110 mph: passing cars,
hiding weekend fun from a sheriff’s skiff
going so fast on by that we couldn’t tell,
back up to just below Cass Street bridge in peak heat,
the kind that grows on you in color
and only halfway through a no wake zone,
halfway wishing i was with my love,
halfway somewhere: growing old, staying awake,
sipping pina coladas, bumming cigarettes,
and spraying thick sticky suntan lotion clouds
not long after the occurrence of already changing red,
my crushed fedora & new frames sans transition lenses,
this real life escape. something like a
last-minute decision over a landline,
moments later he picked me up saying: we’re late.
Stepping through tall blonde prairie grass
I leave one modern world quickly behind,
busy it buzzes & calls in sirens & hums,
lost out here on my own, biding my time.
It’d be a shame to not realize…
this breakfast has more passion,
my tongue has more taste;
the bold world we now live in,
everyone’s got something to say.
Oh, you’re also a local writer?
Oh, you write about injustices too?
See, I want something truly novel,
I really want something new.
And what about the morning coffee?