Posts tagged ‘hot’

March 6, 2018

03/06/2018 snow removal for the corner lot and the ideology that comes with better my community for my community through action

woke to
delayed buses
old tweets
hopefully not-cancelled daycare
strong coffee
necessary boots
thoughts of snapping
heavy fucking parka
and a pre-broken back
to shovel us out.
that’s my life.
no choice really.
checking my something…
the weather up here,
and we think we can change it.
probably we don’t.
it changes us.
in so many ways:
my skin is pocked
eyes are dry and red
throat sore, pain in head,
even when cleared.
tell me who owns who
and i’ll show you your facebook updates
and i’ll show you to donate to your cause
and follow that money, former and latter.
people do good and bad things.
surely, those ideas are paid for.
these are cost free!
why do you wake and stay woke?
there is shoveling to be done just there.
i have to go outside
and deal so no one trips
and falls and
sues. no one trips at this residence
and falls and sues on salted ice.
i disagree with MPR on the matter.
they don’t salt my walk.
i don’t salt theirs.
that works out for both of us.
the cameras will tell of the driven snows and blocked streets
and they talk of fairness.
blizzard winds, clear my sidewalk
so i don’t have to. diapers to change.
English language to teach in foreign lands from my basement.
that sounds fair to me.
go out and get lost in it, i will.
go out and another round at this love.

July 20, 2016

mn heat

oppressive mn heat
a starch blanket
save for weighted winds
strip me hot naked

some dry desert nigh
inside for a time
sun blinding eyes
higher in the skies

and what ac wets me
nothing for going out
lights waver glowing
powering at a rout


wager for winter
wager for reprieve
betting on instinct
hoping it to leave

and at least not death valley,
dumpsters swelter in the alleys.

March 5, 2015

People Today:

My God is
My Phone.

December 12, 2014

Winter 2014 (On: Summer 1969, by Seamus Heaney)

Thoughts of reading a text by *S. Heaney,
Bits and pieces of dewed Madrid,
With heavy inflections of Hemingway,
Scattered about within. Bull horns
And drink, and women, and sex. Smell
Of skin, fish parts, and molded excrement.
Emitting and emoting the pawing presence
Of death; Protestant and Catholic,
Rebellions over said claims.
There the air held hot, as one without water,
Lacking, in a vast desert, as a drunk’s hung-over
Morning plight, -head-spin, praying for the noise to fast die,
Lavishing in Great Lakes of the mind.
He spoke of letting it go, as in
Sobering up, as in really feeling this event.
He had been fearing the gun holster
And lack of action in present. Admiring the man
Who hand-gripped the cold barrel steel, afraid to notice.
But all those bleeding bulls, and fish debris, and local
Women, and spent shells counted. Dripping their sweetness
On his fingertips, wet, as the spilt thick
Ink of his pen. Language of stink
And movement. Surely he felt a bit
Satisfied as he sipped a beaded glass of beer
In the city center, in the summer, 1969,
In Madrid, as he wrote his free-verse prose. As he
Let his words come alive and go.

*Singing School (Summer 1969), BY SEAMUS HEANEY

July 21, 2014

Monday Morning

alerted bolt upright by a sticky sheet situation,
first hours of the day
eggs toast and hot sauce
back pains and skin stuck to the bed.

radio conveying news, noise, whatever…
life has been brought to my attention -social media-
ladies promoting sexism; life venting on things, ironically, whatever…

moving stirring sitting standing
applying lotion,
fresh tattoos peel and feel like sunburns,
still drying to some extent.

packing bags, fingering keys, opening doors,
one way to the bathroom for relief
fake leather gloss on my bike seat
read something, anything—Nietzsche.

shower, shit, don’t shave
set- stare in the mirror,
look down to feet
making way, avoiding the cat and debris,
dust filled rooms, draw shades no heat relief.

silverware drawers,
sink filled with grease,
pressures such as time, hypocrites, saboteurs, hunger, cleanliness–…  oh, and NEEDS.

hang about dizzy-clogged head
one thinks
one forgets
one waits
one bends
I should have stayed in bed
I should have stayed in bed.

May 21, 2014


Porous spores
Creatures of the ground

Soft supple fresh flesh—
As dead leaves they are brown

Under canopy and fodder young stems prosper
A sedentary proper, the dirt remains unbothered

Fleeting as the fast night came
Came they did, with the damp Spring rain.

August 28, 2013

Dew Point (Part 2)

Around 80, with the dew point, similar to 100 and lost.

This is only for a few days, and we measure the cost.


There remains a great contrast, from shut-in at negative 20, to shut-in and very sunny.


All above and everything below have theirs to tow.


Weather, a well suited rival, for wherever we are we strive for survival.

We learn as we grow.


Some clutch drink, others clutch the Bible.

I am just preparing for the recital.


My glass remains sweating on the table, the fan blows hot air in, and I wear a smile.

Now, about the weather today…  Where do I begin?


August 27, 2013

Dew Point (Part 1)

Most won’t run in “normal” temps; I run best in advisories, while injured, after a cigarette.




Sweet putrid smells greet the nose, as it goes, in the air around this city.


Noon, as we steadily increase to terminal dew point, a midday jungle hell, all the populous feels and knows, pressures build as dead swell.


Praying a fast hour to follow.


An almost empty glass bottle, wood-corked, lay with remnant rose’ along the side of sweltering asphalt streets.


Bike frames lacking single tires, basement doors easily unlocked, the city is almost barren, inside to air-conditioning, and fans, people flock.


There are three places to find relief:  first, the library, second, the basement, and third, the beach.

Bring water and a small dirty sheet.


Sand, or leather chair-suit your fancy, free yourself of cares.

Less words, more discrete, fast on feet, on a mission, thoughts of cold sleep.


The only objective is to beat the heat.

Weather mental-disease; fight the condition, and remember to breathe.


Thoughts of comfort released.


Shirtless again, three showers later, and I still sit in wet.

It is too hot to feel defeat.

Times like these we forget.

June 12, 2013

Overcoming The Future @loftliterary

After the drunken interactions, bike accidents, moving, and ill words, starting the day out with work seemed somewhat refreshing.


J.J. sits next to me exhausted, however, happy not to be cleaning out apartments in the summer heat.


Dead flowers and ornaments lined the paths we walked, remnants crumpled under feet.

Memories of our lives lined the paths we walked, lost with loss, a tangible defeat.


Now we see.

Now we hardly speak.



Now step to the sea, feel reason.

The past was a lesson, like the passing of seasons.


All pressure and then release.

Subtle while discrete.


Writing of what we had midday on the black hot paved street.

Evening rain soon washed away the chalk.

Milky puddles were all to be seen.

A natural deed.


Mad at the steps for being so hard on the feet.

Straight-line conclusion amidst a fork in the road, an easy path is not taken by those who are bold.

Now I see.