i love bacon on foggy sundays
talking about past “friends”
reliving vivisection nightmares
and discussing English language.
of course, in a room full of
nametags and coffee and questions;
we are all teachers together,
except i hold my head
and wait for my lenses to change colors.
of course, came in late
and i don’t believe in
your political beliefs
too busy haggling with customer service
finding use where their is none.
she rubbed her inner thighs.
the sun was out though.
telling people what i think-thought-theory
is a litmus test for your sanity;
without commanding a sharp group
and/or their thoughts simultaneously.
the clock didn’t have numbers.
touch fingertips when you’ve found a partner.
would rather tell google to play
“hold on for one more day”
than subscribe to what is
imagined outside of the bubble; i can see too.
i will eat the whole pig and its face too.
i really don’t care when it comes to food.
a survivalist eats it cold.
Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets Walker Texas Ranger.
and i love sundays and bacon
and waking up not from surgery
or extremely hung-over and broke
and having my wife and son
right here next to me.
i like getting paid.
i didn’t waste last night at a bar
trying to tell my “friends”
i believed in what they thought
so they could like me again
when i don’t.
would rather make enough money to sleep on,
would rather. and you can
find me with bacon and without.
you can find me smiling, ready.
i love bacon on foggy sundays
probably i think
i would protest personal vanity
put forth my actual self
and positive thought
as the world burns to said ashes,
as the sun goes out to black.
or probably i think
i might just sit where
i am, in regular shit.
figure it out closely,
a new way to complain
to go against
age old systems that
do affect us all,
(NO ONE IS SPECIAL)
in certain ways,
and learn myself how to
smile at the plight.
i could do all that, but
there is a house to clean,
there is work to be attended to,
there is love to make,
smiles to have,
bills to pay, food to buy,
student debt to fret,
clothes to mend, diapers to change,
poor property management,
thoughts to have to make
it happen like it should,
so i buy lottery tickets.
probably i think
to forget that thought,
and turn into a robot
no passion, no spunk,
just regular person,
no complaints, really,
just motion and task,
nothing not to love.
because they said dreams like that
are really just dreams,
so shut up and dance,
stop being so negative because
everyone is a known poet
arguing something, protesting everything
for there is air in their lungs
and everyone has ears.
so you are
just like everyone else,
and in ways, far better off
for having such a thought
and now they’re talking snow.
How interesting that fireworks now bring us together
when they represent devices that once tore us apart.
-Terry Scott Niebeling
here, 10pm, crowds on spread tarps and chairs,
thoughtfully placed earlier,
chatted along a spilt-over sidewalk path,
coming down to the Riverside fest grounds
with family and friends;
these goers were just stepping through, at a time.
taking air along the luminescence of the waters’ edge
waiting for fire, explosions, light and smoke,
waiting for a show of power
on the concussion boom’s holiday eve
of a hot summer day.
notice the faint ghost outline of the Cass st. bridge,
it went up tall toward the south on wet glow,
pale blue in orange light as navigational lights
sent from boats bounced to and fro below signaling.
where mayflies flew, stunk, buzzed;
their fate kept them at lamps
busy for their annual dance.
people in groups—no worse,
buttoned up, oohing and aaaahing,
taking such a spectacle.
for a time
the mass was all American,
for a time nothing else mattered.
viewing were homeless and rich
in the same theatre vantage;
spirits were aloft as this year’s sparkling
in gunpowder and smoke,
the thought that everything was all right,
illuminated on another shore—
in a time of celebration, in a nation
under a spangled flag.
Wood laid in a pile,
brought down in the days before;
years of life soon ash.
where difference is proclaiming your hardships
in the same way as everyone else.
A good day
a good morning,
starts with clear sight,
and an open mind,
starts with a coffee in hand,
starts with movement
a good day starts with starting,
a good day starts with you.
Everything I need is right beside me:
Honest intuition and heavy thought.
The ability to make others laugh and reflect on that;
Without those things there is nothing.
-We may be lost…
Are you digging a hole just to take you down a notch?
-Rather, one must bring a ladder.
Nothing is really that bad
there is no reason to cry,
-not to say it couldn’t be better-
you could make it a try.
Love the way it is.