as i turn on the boob tube
to local frost warnings
and bright light
an inspiration is born.
something surely new.
something surely different.
as wafting aroma of morning coffee
kept cool in the fridge
then poured out neat in a cup.
low dew points: free!
some commercials sing.
sell me more, like their press.
why don’t you sell poetry?
blinking and bouncing colors.
loving the breeze
that wraps me through
the window as i sit nude
thinking on meetings
and projects and lifestyles
on some cat-torn up couch.
how we all get around.
how we all are targets.
just a touch of some Button on a remote.
at some remote location.
living room centered.
in the middle of everything,
and nowhere and somewhere,
and some inspiration is born
just like this,
and we can all relate.
but will we give it that way
as we ourselves get?
Commercialism. Capitalism. Nepotism.
those are still in the art you read.
will we acknowledge the acknowledgeable
which too makes us
and we find unique when it is not?
probably i don’t know.
probably go buy their works.
some tell of “privilege” i guess.
tell stories they don’t “know”.
tho are your friends publishers,
curators, or the media?
make em’ more realistic as if given.
if so, it’s all good.
if not, go fish. my inspiration grows.
tho i am pale, tired, and typical.
where is the kitchen sink?
i suppose they are right if they believe.
here is the father of some idea.
something already been said.
something apathetic, something me.
as i turn on the boob tube
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.
Sitting, eyeing, on the green line east
at pull of rubber band force
from automatic closed doors,
this way going fast to St. Paul,
reading pulp & fodder & reviews–
rain taxi on such a fine day, muse,
truth as the second coming, we assume,
alone as this newborn child is,
before our welcome birthing days…
And these bells only go buzz
their purposeful bing accord,
and the hipsters trend all over
Twitter and Facebook storyboards,
and I read “Dessa”: as one name,
I am not too big to make real art,
hard looks and fresh lemon bitter.
I am here between twin cities
futzing with the magazine innards
tonguing sore mouth blisters
trying to find a schedule to go on mr…
Stories of contrast black and white
waiting on bleak blue dinged seats
and this line rolls along green,
in pale hot bright summer sun seen,
malaise in my stomach sits–pits,
Snelling, Hamlin, and Lexington,
sour as such sordid sentiment,
I bike to some new on old hopes
to pay cash for a tin roof owned,
I hope it’s not too far, still sitting,
still watching, waiting, thinking:
Do people really think they are fooling
anyone waiting at the scanner’s
edge to run up on the station
without paying the correct fare?
O, bad actors must have just forgot,
the commuter theatre is free today.
for those who crave to float.
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
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
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.
What a person would give
to wake whenever—
alarm clock inconsequential,
even for its buzzing
at startled sleeping ears;
next to a blossoming love laying,
touching, snoring, holding, warming;
for each nocturnal breath,
each pull of the down comforter
in a mute cat-hair covered duvet;
awoken to a springtime pitter-patter
which started the night before
after pictures on a screen—
now somewhat cold
listening to talk of global warming
with a whole day ahead,
oh god, Kerri Miller (sure…);
a few hours behind,
cleaned dishes sitting,
dripping as beyond the window,
and much wasn’t said
for want because this person had:
a few new books free
from Pierre Bottineau library
of Northeast (which it is not,
so I am told), flax-seed
and oats and brown sugar
and clear water;
this person sitting
had everything that was needed
and more just to realize it all
just to think,
from the inside out, heart beating,
synapse snapping, mindful
being, just slouched there,
and would give anything for it,
that thing you want so bad.
Just past Duluth I saw it again, the gains along the highway, cutting tributaries, and well named signs. I saw Shore Creek, and cars parked along it, the patient fishing. Tired eyes captured the sun and we ate Betty’s pies in her quaint cafe. It was simply up there as we were, that vast deep blue along crimson spotted red, and varied pebbles. Seagulls cawed. How it was made: volcanos. Set up along verdant pine. A truck bounded past meltsnow and the hot going as it were. Lake Superior, North Shore, just past Duluth I saw it. Such a reprieve, and just up a bit. Hard to imagine its incredible immensity. Try and take a moment to see across where it bends at the horizon.