i woke up this morning
painting a painting,
put the colors in it,
gave it detail,
and so it was.
minor moves in maelstrom.
then i called it my own
and asked for a museum,
a place for it to
be put up in,
a place for it to call home.
eye of the storm, so settle in.
and then i woke up again.
and then i found my painting.
and then i found my museum.
to the leeward we form.
looking at the mirror
even with tired eyes.
thank you for this day.
i woke up this morning
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.
the objective thermostat here
is hard butter on a dirty
busy kitchen countertop.
other contraptions don’t work.
i am front page, B & C,
and Columbia Heights business.
they want coffee shops for
auto care, they want a place
to find what they need.
they, they, they, but who?
this is sunday with my nose
in a creased Star Tribune.
i am at home with Jazz 88(.5),
with the smell of burnt sourdough.
that which surrounds creates.
sounding the packaging from
yesterday’s christmas market parade;
that was money well spent.
coffee travels with it in aromas and
heat to our morning stomachs.
empty then, now made stuffed full.
just two grown up children
at a register, talking about getting
quarters for laundry, where baristas
broke food & beverage codes,
and what goes on later that day was told.
i don’t want to get sick, i just want.
i love the short weekends for
what they are, for what our
society allots a persona like me. i can
afford this for just five days of paid toil
out of the lengthy work week, and
i think, it might be worth the wait.
new sunday measuring the warmth,
running in the cold; we are finding two
for five for a 40 hour amassing life.
and that is how exactly i am i.
ideas in mouth,
just words and air
in the wind.
ideas in action
takes a mind
to start to begin.
ideas in groups
useless, sit and spin.
ideas in self:
stuck there within.
now if only action.
now if only action.
no one else.
Colors undulated in water’s reflection
Each vessel thrown motion on waves.
Daylight slipped between fast shadows
Astir with dust, sunscreen, and wake.
Reading and discussion as people laze,
Land mammals splashed with excitement.
Allowing the arched path of hot sun play,
Keeping covered eyes from its vibrance.
Etched in sand were castles and hills,
So many fantasies that were imagined.
On the surface a light breeze gave chills.
Under vast clear indigo sky’s advantage.
Those gathered took their weekend time;
Hurried for nothing, just this life alive.
Good morning Midwest,
there is joy to be found in objectively
taking the peeking sunrise,
even behind overcast clouds.
It happens so early in fact
that you can taste the shine
of the drinking fountains
lining the walls,
and last night’s perfume
in vacant halls.
That place is so early; an empty room—
soon to be filled up,
is a peaceful quiet serene,
in all feeling at present,
for a brief moment.
I stand noting the close function
to create this occasion:
I am at least 15 of 60 before any shift
worth getting paid for—
making the punctual look lazy
and the lazy look dead.
No apology here,
I can’t fix apathy, or ignorance.
I say become besties with the alarm clock,
buy stronger coffee,
cook leaner eggs.
I make my day on time
because I am running out of it,
and you didn’t even notice
while punching in.
Here’s how it’s done:
in twilight slumbers,
I dream of coming early
on most days
ending in “Y”.
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.