every day to the last,
and make that so.
every day to the last,
Take all chances.
Do things that others tell you not to do.
Do what you think is right.
Prepare yourself for a career you enjoy from experience.
Labels and titles do not matter.
Always be present and visible.
Believe in yourself, really.
Have a passion for what you are interested in.
Always, always be early.
And think positive.
days i wake bolt upright
nothing but happy.
it is here in southeast
or la crosse, or la crescent,
or whittier, or uptown
or dublin, or Washington Ave
where no one alive
can take that away.
nothing but happy here,
just to hit that snooze.
like switching drinks,
not from one hand to another,
but the beverage entirely.
Finding a new drink…
How could one come so set in their ways
that they don’t find the nerve to change?
Standing there, waiting,
watching the water boil,
face turned red,
ego on high alert—ready?
This sergeant don’t take no lip,
unless it’s yours,
and he will eat the entire thing…
And those herbs will turn to taste,
and you can bet your ass on it.
There is no need for filter or mug,
no need for a full pot or the caffeine shakes,
just one cup to get me by.
Life in moderation, and we fumble at the keys.
And it was pure fate,
the Irish black tea beckoned
as if to take me back—
far away, into distant lands,
as if I missed Dublin
and the 5th floor flat at Staycity.
I could see most of The Liberties
from the number 43 balcony—
on walks aside double-decker buses,
smooth euros in my pockets,
along the river Liffey.
And everyone watched as we drank whiskey
and fresh Guinness, and read books,
and they pronounced three as “tree”,
and we were slagged as “yanks”.
As we sat on cross-country excursions
thru endless rolling green hills
and stone walls and winding roads
and puffy sheep.
As we saw things some of us hadn’t seen before,
with a drink in hand and our feet on the ground.
And I sip.
And I recall.
It will be awhile before I get back around.
But it was good to try something new.
Where the metro rain comes from I do not know.
Maybe it comes from the Gulf of Mexico,
or across outer space deep, or maybe from the hard ground
under my feet. I really do not know where it comes from.
I know I am a percentage of it, but I also know that
I am so bad at math, trying to figure it, with exact percentage,
with an exact equation, would make me sweat good—
lose the water I am made of: essentially I would lose that part
of me, my hydration. I figure it sometimes comes from the sky
because it lands on my head while getting my shoulders wet,
and I can see it falling fast… So, from observation this is true.
I am not partial to its occurrence; sometimes it is to my chagrin,
sometimes it is to my disliking. If the sun were out I would watch it
slip along the rocky mud banks of a spinning Mississippi,
perhaps with a Nalgene bottle full—at a pavilion of wood,
its different forms; my hands would be pulling worms into the air
from a Styrofoam vessel, to pull fish from its filling flow;
we are all full of water, some of us are also full of shit.
Rain let’s shine life, as we sought a tap to fill clean glasses,
polished by it in other ways—endless purpose what it were.
Where the metro rain comes from I do not know,
but sitting inside, for hours on a dry cat-teased couch,
I watched it come down and present itself alive today.
It never really mattered where it came from, it was right here.
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.
There was an attractive space recently filled,
which became an empty void.
That empty void,
became a great opportunity.
That great opportunity,
became a fleeting moment.
That fleeting moment of great opportunity of an empty void,
was then filled whole.
In the process of planning,
you missed the entire occurrence.
O now how the coffee tastes
so bitter at the bottom,