this would make me empassioned, or
impassioned. i am passionate about this something…
that’s how i get
who’ve never left the states
try to fix
other people’s problems
their English language exclusively.
the irony of westernization; fixed only by itself. YOU SEE?
and that is what they call backwards and selfish.
tho, there will be no stories of this on the news.
because just get out there and disrupt because.
and they should
call those who
think locally “nationalists” too.
a bunch of loud fools.
you know, somethings don’t translate.
you know, people might have different opinions.
this is how language works.
so when they/you designate
their/your ideas, ideations, and ideologies
as such, i just smh in realtime.
so silly, so stupid, so same.
that is why i am a where-ever-i-am-at-ist,
because i am right there,
i can attempt to understand
what i see and experience around me,
for me, for truth, for better.
maybe even for you…
but honestly, not for you (i don’t care)
or the tv (forget tv), i won’t facebook livestream it
or create a clever sign that
gets thrown away next day in some ironic carbon footprint
(that you too should actually hate)
after the post and the filter and the likes–fretter fakes.
and that is what i am passionate about,
or empassioned about, or impassioned about,
all that is around me
because i can touch it tangible,
as they said, i can feel the real,
i can set the clock next to the bed.
and there is something about language and labels.
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.
even if you lose,
i love bacon on foggy sundays
talking about past “friends”
reliving vivisection nightmares
and discussing English language.
of course, in a room full of
nametags and coffee and questions;
we are all teachers together,
except i hold my head
and wait for my lenses to change colors.
of course, came in late
and i don’t believe in
your political beliefs
too busy haggling with customer service
finding use where their is none.
she rubbed her inner thighs.
the sun was out though.
telling people what i think-thought-theory
is a litmus test for your sanity;
without commanding a sharp group
and/or their thoughts simultaneously.
the clock didn’t have numbers.
touch fingertips when you’ve found a partner.
would rather tell google to play
“hold on for one more day”
than subscribe to what is
imagined outside of the bubble; i can see too.
i will eat the whole pig and its face too.
i really don’t care when it comes to food.
a survivalist eats it cold.
Texas Chainsaw Massacre meets Walker Texas Ranger.
and i love sundays and bacon
and waking up not from surgery
or extremely hung-over and broke
and having my wife and son
right here next to me.
i like getting paid.
i didn’t waste last night at a bar
trying to tell my “friends”
i believed in what they thought
so they could like me again
when i don’t.
would rather make enough money to sleep on,
would rather. and you can
find me with bacon and without.
you can find me smiling, ready.
no matter my surroundings
i find myself there.
our thick syrup is maple leaf
the greasey sausages of pork
new light cuts through pale smoke
of warm sun on the open porch
on Saturdays i can usually
drink a whole pot of coffee, not just half
so it sits until the next day and maybe
goes into a growler in the fridge.
my stepfather says it’s a waste to make less
than a full pot of coffee, so today i feel
accomplished and un-wasteful. on the way
to write this i played with the stinky cat
with a painful foot that possesses an ingrown
toenail on the big toe and has athletes
foot unrestricted. i turned on the kitchen
light and opened the shades and perused
the backlot as i filled the pot with tap water.
my wife changed a dirty diaper and prepared
for work. i cleared my mind for getting my
ID updated and a new credit card;
i would have to change accounts. i poured what
was left of the old coffee from yesterday
into a tall glass, added creamer and drank.
thought about how i won’t buy beer this weekend
and how our podcast went so well. it’s things like these
that matter, keep the full pot full, positive.
my stepdad was right, and then she walked in
to ask what i was doing in here, listening
to funky soul on Google Home and writing.
waiting for the full pot of coffee to be done.
one truly concerned for the truly concerned,
one acutely offended by the acutely offended–
about as Midwesterner as you can get;
avoiding one’s opinion, no need to mention.