Posts tagged ‘minnesota’

April 15, 2017

Travel to La Crescent, Minnesota

why not leave at 6:30 pm
or 6:38, or whenever time,
no time no matter no worry,
cant think for not?
we go in wetting droplets,
Gods globulars hung at our mirrors
sluiced in the whatnot, and everyday.
Lexington Parkway traffic,
homeless with signs, traffic,
dampness seeps in the traffic,
94 traffic to 52 south.
we were full to the brim; kitchen sink.
sometimes i feel bad for them.
sometimes i feel bad for me.
more of want of wont of need, both agreed.
sometimes everything is always run on monies
so i work harder on Mondays come and see me.
Antony and the Johnsons loudly
and a Fistful of Love… you have never heard of.
the things we dont know are more poignant.
cut across a freeway, no freedom
on our way along the way to see some,
temped by wiperblade and dead deer viscera–
something scattered last week and foul
something old and brown and our future.
losing light like the night.
more south, St Charles, Rochester,
more south, Preston, Rushford, Houston,
into the deep croaking valley green
spawned ever by these roiling storms
kind that would hard driving make
then here now true.
i always wish to dine in Nodine.
then there on the hillside:
a blazing hot cross that says fuck you in passive aggressive
to the spoiled lot that whined about it from WI
extinguished from their special sensitive gaze.
a train that i didnt see but heard blew on by–
must be a metaphor for something…
look at that rambler, i want it.
we can leave whenever to wherever
but when we make it well know for not.
But when we left didnt matter really.

*
come to theorize:
perhaps Dale Earnhardt’s death
was the 9/11 of NASCAR…

April 11, 2017

the night was ok here in st paul…

what a night.
one to still breathe in
fresh air out there.
thankful, i do care…
for the cold brown beans,
for the expensive warm heat,
for the voided leave-less trees–
they make this
sort of explosion
of a thousand fingertips
in the fore of holding their place in
some melting pale hue color of shadowed bone,
the sun is gone tho.
friends and kin die alone; now alone.
even thankful for that
and the cat.
and mosquitoes: minnesota bats
where you at?
between making it and i cant.
thankful i am in the midwest
not religious, but blessed.
not tired, no rest.
thankful for that still, yet.
more water from the tap
more teaching, notebook’s in lap.
filling in the gaps.
dont worry, dont clap.
what a night.
what a night.
thankful it’s free to me.
thankful have it be.

March 17, 2017

…the buses which brave curb rash just to find me.

4:30 PM i would take the 87 to the 67
in St Paul where an area code designates different
and rainclouds drop ice instead of acid.

i imagine that the book at my paunch is warm
and a deranged weapon and those
stuck in their devices won’t notice all that much.

life is like that, stuck in something and unnoticed.
that is what Nest cams are for.
Prior and Uni there is a bus stop

and a café where people shield their faces
from droplets and the smell is something unfamiliar,
musty, affronting, acidic, and rendered vanished.

then the 67, then the backseat blue,
then the same aroma i thought i left on the street,
thought for a second it was me–looked at my boots

–must just be the city. bus tires crawled
the potholes, snaked the corners,
and ran me down a slight incline to a juxtaposition.

i saw red brick molested by graffiti
in high up places from a bridge span vantage,
and felt my lunch lurch at stop and go.

diagonal street not there, but where i am going: Home.
and the mailbox lid was up waving at me,
and the gutters were like the coffee pot

with holes just dripping into the basement
to grow what might hang or cower in a crevice…
really, it has nothing to do

with my commute or the day or the buses
which brave curb rash just to find me.

February 25, 2017

present

no matter my surroundings
i find myself there.

February 24, 2017

how about that snow minnesota, pretty bad huh? (a bunch of dummies)

i guess, when your facebook predicts it
in so many memes
and the weather team can’t be wrong,
how does one cope by just stepping outside
into nothing that was said,
stepping outside
into the alternative universe
you create
by not just going along with a crowd
that may or may not be right
uniquely defined by such honed definitions
and individuals turned to
what amount to metaphorical piles of snow,
losing ground in May
and not exactly sure of what to do
or say in text about anything anymore.

February 19, 2017

sunday morning february

our thick syrup is maple leaf
the greasey sausages of pork
new light cuts through pale smoke
of warm sun on the open porch

February 11, 2017

skill

these poets have got skill
they ought to make gods
out of straw men
with fists up to disrupt
in groups large enough
not to miss
but for a singular idea;
for the entirety
individuality has left the building
like they say Elvis once did
and
they prefer and
persuade yours’ gone too, verily–
auf wiedersehen, jetzt;
tho irony poses a problem
when
you think about that purpose
without thinking about that principle,
a group think showing
others to not think
for themselves: so don’t; ironically,
for some everything
can be a problem, depending on the message,
similarly with the critic
at a convention of their beat–they just have to;
still there is nothing new under the sun.
but as arms of automated
recycling trucks
reaching out with care
at soon to be new old shit
these poets
could fall like building 7
16 years ago September, to grey dust
by one true statement,
fall like a beggar’s budget
at two buck chuck,
and then break
their wrists patting their own backs
as if they made
that poignant prose
so much their own,
accordingly their every breathe
is arrogance.
let’s call it “skill” anyway.

February 9, 2017

Mpr thinks of poetry

Remember Melville died penniless
and Bukowski in CA without mind;
Nowadays they still talk way up high
the overrated, alas they forget mine.

February 7, 2017

socialism and other great theories in practice

one time yesterday between taxes and a phone conversation with my wife about ear infections and successful weekends i witnessed a state sponsored group hanging signs against state sponsored things, i thought Soros and let me take a picture of the palisades and pillars which they circumvent, let me rest easy in their pulped trees and how the stapler to this meaningful act makes its clack, let me, let me, let me think about external costs and how no one reads beyond what they think is their oh-so good intention. thankfully i had a crystal signal and positive thoughts; heard more about it when my colleague picked up that neon green trash and let them have it again too. i am glad for relation, and humor. it was good. they were three, they were shortsighted, they were talking very big about something they read the headline to but forgot the paragraphs after, i was better for viewing and thinking and sauntering in circles on the mall. ideologies and group think and fliers and signs and sponsors behind them, waiting between the lines, but their audience has no idea, just do, do, react.

February 4, 2017

some bright orbs are hated for their difference

i feel like a grapefruit in
an orange grove sometimes–
like shave, shower, shit;
alarm bells, scrolling the internet;
deodorant, brush, smile,
sweating thru, flannel, true;
Moby-Dick, Hitchens, and
Bukowski, metal ends
to my leather toes;
unknown and close, you would never know.
40 and holding, always weekly,
bitch and complain and shamed
but still nothing for change…
and when they peel my flesh to test
the citrus juice comes fresh,
more blood orange than a crate of grapes,
more real than fake.
and they talk about Onalaska
and La Crosse and La Crescent
like they are all me, and not.
something above it, but
a grapefruit in an orange grove,
thinking differently alot.
or i think i forgot,
but that’s no big deal anyway,
see what i look like, have a taste.