every day to the last,
and make that so.
every day to the last,
mother robin feeds her baby at window’s edge,
such new reflection of life passing through.
The treetops spar where we are,
sounding inspiration on lost occasion.
Stepping through tall blonde prairie grass
I leave one modern world quickly behind,
busy it buzzes & calls in sirens & hums,
lost out here on my own, biding my time.
sun up where
feet walk bare,
a leashed dog sniffs
at frosted ground.
gun shots pop softly
in a valley afar,
and barks from
down the block.
outside a paper
rests rolled, and banded.
here waving hands
move light behind
a pickup truck’s
clear windshield view.
chores and thoughts
in crab apple view;
what broke the day
gave back tenfold whole,
what chance had Chica
to have her piss.
Joe, he kills it in class
with his well-formed questions,
he does—it’s true.
I wish I would have gone
to the same high school as him,
I assume he was popular,
probably played ball.
Alas, I didn’t, alas, I sit far,
far away from his dicey interactions.
Another classmate I sit in a room with—confusedly,
she uses the word “like” more times
than I ever thought understandably possible,
like, oh my fucking god,
if I hear that word once more in rapid succession
I may just leave class early unannounced.
But Joe—back to him, he is like the honey bee that stings,
he is like a one hit wonder from the mid-90s,
he also dies intellectually from his act.
It is tragic like Hamlet, not enough college to know:
let the teacher talk, this is their show.
As a peer I will admit this is fun
to watch and hear and be a part of—
(The professor’s ahem interruption of the grasshopper!)
like the Titanic sinking on film,
like an ungraceful fall on March ice,
or like a public argument growing in volume and irrelevance,
as the instructor says: we are a part of everything…
OOOOWWWWW! AAAAAAHHHHHH! Some theory…
The classroom is full of minds blown.
I enjoy these acts,
but they are painful.
Oh yes, but fun.
Education offers much.
Abandoned train bridges make for the best retreats,
Under empty blue skies which remain always there.
Cotton wood branches waved leaves as a busy fleet,
Fading summer months made all those about aware.
It is the flit of
a blue jay’s wings
It is a potbellied squirrel, tan beige,
on a bent limb in the
It is the faint
sweet smell of ripened honeysuckles
on winds getting lost in
a township forest.
It is a reflection of
Warrior and orator.
Wood laid in a pile,
brought down in the days before;
years of life soon ash.