Fog of deep valley
drifts away from verdant bluffs.
Small town soul revealed.
Fog of deep valley
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.
where thunder bolted
crawled across our
pulling trees & dust
along its straight way
people jumped on fords
while blue and jet matters
a breath of fresh air
no one can breathe
seiche and fetch
a storm went
a storm stayed
a storm cried
more, more, more
and the weather didn’t think
this is all it could do
it just did what
it had to, it happened.
what i know
is that people
they create it
people only want
words, art, ideas,
if they create
cite the editors,
the talking heads,
best of friends
in foggy dawn
hot summer’s day,
but i didn’t
and that is why they
only the best.
in elementary school
i used to violently shake
chocolate milk cartons
until they were mixed
sweet as milk shakes.
i learned something
if you don’t like
what you get, stir things up
a bit to your liking.
i still do this activity
on occasion today,
shake, stir, twist–
just not with milk cartons,
tho i still muck with taste.
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.
on a clock
in a forest
ways like sleep in morning eyes
useless navigating kitchen
sweet as thick spooned honey raw
soft tongue to sharp tastes
Seeing your actions
any good intentions
that your pursed
could ever exclaim.