Posts tagged ‘La Crescent’

May 5, 2017

a timed view at 814 S. 12th

my early eyes cut to
the open window at our landing
a pink and orange rising
on some neighbor’s siding wall,
outside quiet,
unobtrusively unannounced,
where grass shakes as strips of paper
leaves stand still as burning effigies
and time waits for a moment.
all life is here and now
the release–of breath of soul of whatever…
and somehow moving on
is less of a chore for this than
sudden death, than surgery, than worry–
and it lingers all the more
touching you softly where it hurts
grabbing you lightly away from your words.
i beg to take a photo of it
that captures such brilliance
but i would only my waste time
with that greedy thought,
and miss the meaning just passed.

April 15, 2017

Travel to La Crescent, Minnesota

why not leave at 6:30 pm
or 6:38, or whenever time,
no time no matter no worry,
cant think for not?
we go in wetting droplets,
Gods globulars hung at our mirrors
sluiced in the whatnot, and everyday.
Lexington Parkway traffic,
homeless with signs, traffic,
dampness seeps in the traffic,
94 traffic to 52 south.
we were full to the brim; kitchen sink.
sometimes i feel bad for them.
sometimes i feel bad for me.
more of want of wont of need, both agreed.
sometimes everything is always run on monies
so i work harder on Mondays come and see me.
Antony and the Johnsons loudly
and a Fistful of Love… you have never heard of.
the things we dont know are more poignant.
cut across a freeway, no freedom
on our way along the way to see some,
temped by wiperblade and dead deer viscera–
something scattered last week and foul
something old and brown and our future.
losing light like the night.
more south, St Charles, Rochester,
more south, Preston, Rushford, Houston,
into the deep croaking valley green
spawned ever by these roiling storms
kind that would hard driving make
then here now true.
i always wish to dine in Nodine.
then there on the hillside:
a blazing hot cross that says fuck you in passive aggressive
to the spoiled lot that whined about it from WI
extinguished from their special sensitive gaze.
a train that i didnt see but heard blew on by–
must be a metaphor for something…
look at that rambler, i want it.
we can leave whenever to wherever
but when we make it well know for not.
But when we left didnt matter really.

*
come to theorize:
perhaps Dale Earnhardt’s death
was the 9/11 of NASCAR…

December 26, 2016

tree removal, i wonder what they pay

a tree removal company rolled up in two trucks in front of my mother’s house. one with a hydraulic lift to scale the tree, the other with a chipper to change its form. they both sat on ice; my mother talked of salting the drive. we watched from the window, Bella the doodle most concerned. earlier i had noted morning light orange of the highest limbs of trees and a bluff black and white back drop before anyone could be called awake, no stirring. and men jumped from their trucks–muffled steps resounded, figured the positioning, lifted, tied ropes, ran trailers into the snowy ground and began to saw, saw, saw. the owner, anal about his law, came out to discuss the future of each blade and which way trees fall in the city. and then it happened. the fall. no “timber” for timber. silence as a shock wave, through the centre, through the top of the tree sending it swaying in a sickening bow back and then forth. i imagined a whole life ruined for a moment; i imagined the rings of a tree and its age are only revealed after death. nextly. chips and dust and exhaust and noise and cutting and chopping and tossing happened in enough cool to make each exhale seen, almost tangible. some authoritative hollers. aside from that, i wonder, how they do it. i could cut down trees too. i wonder what they pay.

September 17, 2016

Life of Bella, the Dog’s Perspective

outside sidewalk.
ruff!

other dogs OUT THERE!
ruff!

underneath
the maple trees.

***

what can i
put
in my mouth
and chew? ….

***
i smell something:
a sock.

maybe i’ll eat it
and shit it
out in the
backyard later…

get yelled at.

***

no. i’ll eat
this peanut butter

toast right here
on the table.

play with my toy.

September 4, 2016

apathy and highways

52 south past Greg’s Meats and a spired oil refinery,
if i were a plotting baddy it would be Mount Rushmore
for symbolism and confusion of the masses.
an open highway before us: droves on phones,
and couples on parade; the rich in their luxury sedans
and country in super duty small dick specials.
dashboard view of master photography, one that could
inspire a journey home, or west, or to new horizons,
something bold and powerful like in health magazines;
in old lands, which are new and no one could care less—
it means something on instagram or facebook or twitter
but beyond it’s malarkey. but really, i usually wonder about
the next rest stop; Gatorade makes me shit and coffee
makes me piss and light nagging hangovers do wonders
for my guilt and humbleness. kids on the way, us kids.
a dog barks in the morning minus its shock collar. this escapism
from a city to a town, needing to find something in nothing,
no more labels that matter, just gathering cut wood
from neighbors who are dead and the living ones
didn’t like their beautiful red and green maple trees,
still we did. logs season enough in a year to make
smoke, to make fuel, ash, what we rode in on. washed and
cleaned and we pulled our mirrors out and met meine Schwestern
am die Ecker squealing tires, snapchated that.
and then we were off to southern homes like ma’s pasta,
like baked goods revamped, like a road less traveled
what should be traveled more. sunday mornings
waiting for the paper, fixing engines to make money.
all is well, birds can tell, and i don’t get their songs.

July 25, 2016

chocolate milk

in elementary school
i used to violently shake
chocolate milk cartons
until they were mixed
sweet as milk shakes.

i learned something
important here:
if you don’t like
what you get, stir things up
a bit to your liking.

i still do this activity
on occasion today,
shake, stir, twist–
just not with milk cartons,
tho i still muck with taste.

June 18, 2016

no. 7 at 14/61 and the future

Between violet sepia bluffs
Cars played lines
A haze grew thick—hot
Orange cones dictated
The fast up and down
Of empty traffic

Cemeteries waved at Dresbach
Sandy islands slipped away
A great dam held its ground
Where days felt longer
And time gave MN goodbyes

Polaris and the waxen moon
Lush grass and free truth
Spread out Abnet field
Voided streets, no yield
Completely consumed

Cigarette smoke rolled
In icy air conditioning
Talks, barstools pushed away
Rum doubles and a door
Familiar face accord

Hands gripped the wheel
Assail easy premonition
A new floor coming in
And I am sure there was
god and love and open skies

All around me the speed limit
All around me cut out hills old

June 5, 2016

the paper boy is dead

On a hunch I sauntered slowly
into fresh borne south of
this driftless region driveway
thinking of a town so small
and so brilliant with newness
that dove’s coos came warmer,
more complex and calming
in cascaded light,
sparrows tangoed along eaves,
nests bulged with twigs above a door—
turning back, I’d see every bump
on simple alien surface streets,
no moving cars, no people, just…
the newspaper there, on time.
7 years as never seen before,
mixed emotions at the thought:
could the paper boy have forgot,
to the end of the cement I went,
where straight lines and nature’s debris,
where I saluted hand over
brow to shield from a blindingness,
so practiced and so readied
the veteran orb could retire happy,
here street signs and crab trees sighed,
and we’d all freeze to death just
below shouldered green hills advancing
with leathered leaves flapping
sans our wrapped Sunday Tribune,
or the will to go anywhere else.

March 26, 2016

La Crescent (in two lines)

La Crescent, where a beautiful quaintness.
La Crescent, where a space to breathe.

March 26, 2016

South by 52

One hundred and forty-two miles
And no goddamn brilliant sunset,
It was all behind a wall of clouds.
It was as if Nick Drake guide us
Along with semis and bold speeders,
Phone calls and this buzzing hum.
52 south and basic open roads,
Here was our fast transporting life
With severe-as-heartache potholes,
Dotted lines and the will to drive;
A truck rolled along where we go.
Past Cannon Falls completely shut out,
Waiting used cars, and descending hills.
Talk thrills in rhetorical expressionism,
Speak of peaceful love coming home.
Grasping what end day commute to
And thinking of where exactly from.
60 through Rochester – someone died;
St. Charles by sister, honking and waving.
I couldn’t tell you of what I didn’t see:
A deep blue outline framed this village
Came into view in a windshield fore,
Familiar sight to see when we stop
Simply the way we had left it before.