Posts tagged ‘La Crosse’

June 12, 2016

here i was, (let’s go out on the river…)

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.

May 16, 2016

border waters

coffee muck
below
where the
rocks
at surface
caught wake
and
came sharp;

lines down
undulating
bringing
depths to rise
bringing
the mystery
from to

we bobbed
at border waters

up and down

December 26, 2015

Fat and Bloated

Now is when I feel fat & bloated. I want
to juice cleanse and run and move and not sit
and not eat. Mario Kart seems an appropriate
lecture; people yell and scream at a tv screen.

I witness this while others are starving,
while watching A Christmas Story. Sometimes
I want to shoot my eye out. The flow of this
media is like red velvet-lined handcuffs.

Some die with their hands up on a couch.
The world is cruel. Loved ones are spoken of
at the bar. They died a few warm years back.
Peppermint drinks come in coffee mugs and

in-laws come with drunken cheer, my pants
come taut and Facebook blows up with new
engagements. I wonder if they really know.
Some give support and get it. Others don’t.

Respect comes in consumerism and what
you can bring them, and I still worry about
my weight. My youngest sister tells me I
am skinny. Jesus is on the computer screen.

The bar life in downtown is docile, a perfect
place to feel heavy and finish a $7 pitcher
of Spotted Cow; I feel better already. Growing
farther apart, and bigger, and older, and more

prone to upset all those around me. At least
I feel fat and good being myself. And some
start, and others pick winless battles. Now,
what a great time to feel fat and bloated.

November 28, 2015

If Wishes Didn’t Exist

I wish so much that I could change it,
just as much as everyone else.
The way you want something
and you really can’t have it.
Like to be independently wealthy,
or have the perfect dream job.
Only because in impossible ways
these entities don’t exist.
That sort of fading obsession
eventually becomes you—you are it.

In the morning from a deep sleep
the thought travels lifetimes
between two eyes, bounds up over
synapse, carries to perspire.
It is in you. And although it is there,
the momentary chill of outside air
seeing a banded local paper folded,
resting, stirs shivers, takes you away.

Some aspects are unavoidable,
some are just there to be taken.
Here is the La Crosse Tribune and
its pointed, objective, new words.
Picking up the rag, I head back inside.
I pull the band loose with fingers
and go at the emboldened headlines.
Thinking: how useless is a wish?
Thinking: it doesn’t really matter.

October 21, 2015

The Night I Lost My Coat

You lost your leather coat

At a bachelor party last weekend.

It wasn’t at the strip club,

Nudes danced wet on poles.

It wasn’t at the forgotten bar,

La Crosse lines them in rows.

It wasn’t inside of the party bus,

The one with open windows,

The one with a cracking radio…

It was lost, elsewhere between—

For reasons of altruistic motives,

To keep your brother warm.

It was lost in ways unknown.

July 5, 2015

Riverside for the Fourth

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.

June 24, 2015

Adjusted Advantage

The world can seem so small
when assessed from the confines
of a one bedroom apartment.
A space tight, sticky, stuffy,
and near unbearably drab.
For a person to go outside and look,
to see all there is to see—to expand the expanse,
to imagine what one might attain
in the span of a lifetime,
at the change of a thought,
on the prospect of a whim, at the drop of a dime.
A perspective can be released
from its rigid boxy cage to stretch sore wings
and to grasp the once unthinkable,
for merely a chance thought,
and for adjusted sight, mercy!

May 2, 2015

Between Wisconsin and Minnesota, an evening interstate

Here I sit, fast going on an evening interstate drive,
as all the world is turned an end-day blur.

The convertible top was dropped
as the dripping moon strutted in high heavens
to flash each blemish loved,
outline each scar deep, detailed,
a desirable waning pale—the color of a tooth ache.

Cheese curd grease and fish guts lingered in the broad smiles
of each captured moment, of each phone in hand.

Hair in the air, messed,
as familiar ghosts styled each malleable strand,
I wonder if they could smell the product on their hands.

Blue Lake came rippled shining,
bending slight the reflection of dusk’s
passing azule.

Comforting speeds blew ears quiet,
as the Chrysler’s engine hummed
at a stoplight break, loved ones in tow.

The car went as we waved to neighbors
and backyard exhibitionists.

There was a police car and prom.
There were city fires burning.
There was a quiet green village turning dark.

I am JFK,
I am in horn-rimmed luxury,
vantage,
I am sitting,
surrounded by everything that I am.

I am first world problems burdened
—too full to starve, too apathetic to cry.

An extended stomach,
a dented head,
beer burps,
and you were in Mexico playing,
as the world passed on.

April 22, 2015

the beauty of writing

To the Workshop Gods, to the Weekend Artists, to the Loud Talkers, to the Local Name Droppers, and to those who say they do important things for the art without taking action. Good Job. TS_

***

The beauty of writing
is sharing your words,
spreading your ideas,
whether it is
unique or not.

It is touching keys
with love,
fucking them,
forgetting the edit,
and doing what you want
just because.

Writing is either part of your life fully,
or great distances far away,
or in between;
it can come back at any moment,
and it can sit there and stay.

Writing is expressing yourself
not for those around you to critique,
it is for you,
it is with you,
it is by you,
in all the experience that you’ve seen.

Your everyday trivial
is more poignant than
yesterday’s raved about
new modern messiah.

Writing can be a target,
with a big bright red mark on your back to attack,
it can show humor
and sadness
and fun
and inspiration to act.

The beauty of writing
is it is actually you,
no matter how weird,
how rough,
how edited,
how wrong,
how the labels others choose to use,
or who it will prove to confuse.

Writing is religion, Allah, Christ, Academia, Professors, and God,
it is verses out of rhyme,
it is punctuation out of time,
and it is of topics trite,
and themes grotesquely odd.

The beauty of writing
can be called flawed by all,
but when it comes time to write,
to share,
to express,
to give,
the loudest have nothing at all.

March 13, 2015

Prelude to Spring Break 2015

As early March had come in biting and the best were kept inside,
a span of two weeks had passed slowly and sleep had become elusive.

Professors watched second hands tick and gave out faux tests;
these symbolic life quizzes—it’s who makes it who matters.

Desks became confines as concentration went out open windows,
to welcome hands of mild weathered-breeze and new-season sun.

People—tired students, red-eyed lecturers, they didn’t exist;
regular situations became stimuli for a stagnant comatose: why?

No answers formed, except that three days later a person could be a week away,
anywhere—abroad, nothing to do, only to read titles and books which please.

Yet we all sat watching that clock, it moved slower despite us;
now, it would have to stay indoors and assess classrooms of empty chairs.

Scholars and administration would hopefully be in Spring air, taking it in,
with a cold beer in hand and tender sunrays on their back;

minds would exist as empty—blank slates, to pen a tale—an experience,
with no thoughts of what was left sitting behind, with not a hint of rigor.

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