when Facebook is stealing our faces
and phones are stealing our minds
we can find ourselves together in protest
or we can ask for help, and stand in line
the creation of blood & flesh;
how it feels to be a new god.
i guess well here’s
a christmas story,
the presents were piled
’round the tree,
in my heavy coffee mug
pumpkin spiced liqueur
for bailey’s irish creme.
and i say happy holiday!
cheers, cheers cheers!
perhaps heavy layers
truth is what
and salt will
kill the snow.
cold & flu relieve.
it is 6 degrees in frogtown, mn,
i am inside sick watching cspan
and a baby sleep in his rock
& play, wife in the kitchen watching
a cracked screen. my face is full
of snot, head full of congestion, watching
talking heads tell me about “fake news”
and debates and their influences.
(easy, i could take their words for it
they probably don’t care about mine.)
someone wears a bandaid on his cheek;
the president wants a deep dive
investigation; and the red hot chili
peppers had a forgotten album in 2004, says reddit.
i wonder about where i was at that time,
i don’t know how that all factors
into everything, but mostly i care
about what is right here, around me.
wooden floors and naked feet–pallid,
lemon sinks to the bottom of my mug
as a blue whale in the south pacific,
muddy water coffee waits on a tablecloth,
plastic snug on the windows, electrical heaters
and baby toys. a coat hangs slack
like yesterday. i know how hillary
felt when she fell into that van,
now i’m with her. now i am sick.
now i am achy as a lab skeleton cold.
ere the cold wind
hardened person debacle,
i become less like
those who represent me
and more like myself,
still running from its presence.
we are found, as errant snow
in misplaced cracks
along the street–
never should have been there.
at the bus stop proper
under pink and sable skies,
this industry: dying trees, real waits,
away from it all,
lights out in the house,
purely darkened for late payments.
a book stands in my side pocket,
slick along the turns,
a clear door opens, “Hello, sir.”
and then the same door closes again
to shield me from it.
ere the cold wind, just as
it touches me whole.
holy fuckin’ shit.
there is no safe way to shovel snow,
there is no way to save your back.
you are feeling it in bed,
and when you stand up,
and when you slip slightly on early ice
making your way to the bus.
you know now there is no safe way to shovel the snow.
even with a bag of salt,
even with a new metal blade,
there is still ice and hard piles– no way.
been expressed as heart attack snow, no joke too.
this stuff is really real,
and it’s just the beginning of a season;
one star in a universe of stars;
virgin weather for old minds,
more to come, more on the horizon.
each snowflake is another chance to die,
now that is something special.
each pull of the shovel,
bend of the back, heave of the chest,
that’s another instance where it could be over.
on my toilet
i think of
all the crap
i might face
and flush it,