this would make me empassioned, or
impassioned. i am passionate about this something…
that’s how i get
who’ve never left the states
try to fix
other people’s problems
their English language exclusively.
the irony of westernization; fixed only by itself. YOU SEE?
and that is what they call backwards and selfish.
tho, there will be no stories of this on the news.
because just get out there and disrupt because.
and they should
call those who
think locally “nationalists” too.
a bunch of loud fools.
you know, somethings don’t translate.
you know, people might have different opinions.
this is how language works.
so when they/you designate
their/your ideas, ideations, and ideologies
as such, i just smh in realtime.
so silly, so stupid, so same.
that is why i am a where-ever-i-am-at-ist,
because i am right there,
i can attempt to understand
what i see and experience around me,
for me, for truth, for better.
maybe even for you…
but honestly, not for you (i don’t care)
or the tv (forget tv), i won’t facebook livestream it
or create a clever sign that
gets thrown away next day in some ironic carbon footprint
(that you too should actually hate)
after the post and the filter and the likes–fretter fakes.
and that is what i am passionate about,
or empassioned about, or impassioned about,
all that is around me
because i can touch it tangible,
as they said, i can feel the real,
i can set the clock next to the bed.
and there is something about language and labels.
i thought before entry on a white dry-erase,
before a heated ride on two wheels
from southeast to st. paul, that I knew
the very minute design of others’ minds
and tight factioned intentions, laden
with exactions, with judgement, with terms
and verses, riding high in bastions that
i had made up and had yet to comprehend.
words flowed ever sweeter, poets and spoken
word artists shown before a set of red brick
telling us their inner being, using language
as their clay, and well–mastered. i thought i
above what i was the same, and no better.
but here i was better for showing my face.
i thought for a moment about this, the idea
i had carried, so heavy all through the day,
my assumptions incorrect. then i remembered,
i thought. i thought. i thought. then i went
and found out different. humans make mistakes.
beautiful how experience solves puzzles.
and then i thought about how i was wrong.
the only real
facts of life
facts of life,
applies to us
imagine it all
out has nothing
to do with
I’ve seen doors locked for all time,
purpose in moments changed,
and boxes closed indefinitely
with familiar occupants inside.
Yet, still I lift my head in ice pellets
coming down on the campus mall,
and still my view is fixed straight-
forward when allowed, and with
this aside, and taking on alternatives.
I exist in a one bedroom apartment
in Southeast, brushing teeth, put-
ting my eyeballs in to see just this.
Leave colors inexplicable
Roots simply acquiesced
Bark came torn to forcibly
Counting the rings within
Shrill scratches, a leaves’ song
on the fade pale of a paved road,
in the early dead of night,
where empty streets hail—
the quiet wind that blows a debris
of dried fronds to clump and to fold,
only noticed as you sliding—go,
following you along the way home.
like switching drinks,
not from one hand to another,
but the beverage entirely.
Finding a new drink…
How could one come so set in their ways
that they don’t find the nerve to change?
Standing there, waiting,
watching the water boil,
face turned red,
ego on high alert—ready?
This sergeant don’t take no lip,
unless it’s yours,
and he will eat the entire thing…
And those herbs will turn to taste,
and you can bet your ass on it.
There is no need for filter or mug,
no need for a full pot or the caffeine shakes,
just one cup to get me by.
Life in moderation, and we fumble at the keys.
And it was pure fate,
the Irish black tea beckoned
as if to take me back—
far away, into distant lands,
as if I missed Dublin
and the 5th floor flat at Staycity.
I could see most of The Liberties
from the number 43 balcony—
on walks aside double-decker buses,
smooth euros in my pockets,
along the river Liffey.
And everyone watched as we drank whiskey
and fresh Guinness, and read books,
and they pronounced three as “tree”,
and we were slagged as “yanks”.
As we sat on cross-country excursions
thru endless rolling green hills
and stone walls and winding roads
and puffy sheep.
As we saw things some of us hadn’t seen before,
with a drink in hand and our feet on the ground.
And I sip.
And I recall.
It will be awhile before I get back around.
But it was good to try something new.
such sounds were reserved, ones that would wake you.
laying there in the morning, full day ahead. touching snooze
to gather more sleep, to gather better dreams. a door opens
and a dog begs for attention. little things like the early light,
the sound of soft feet on hardwood, a car coming, then escaping.
such sounds were reserved for you. wake to unfamiliar familiar.
same as always, touch a button. the coffee maker bubbles,
crickets still sing, birds chirping aloud, coming through
a cracked window in a dim room with the shades drawn.
sounds of a day that were reserved, open morning new july.
Everywhere I go
and everyone I know
are parts of me
and the places between,
from summer sun,
to winter snow;
from the top of bluffs
to the valleys below,
they are carried with me
as everything I know.
They are parts of me,
parts of a whole.