Posts tagged ‘observation’

January 13, 2018

Fact: in Minnesota, the bus is always late in the cold, and later the colder it is…

i was telling the ladies at daycare
about how the bus
always comes 20 minutes late
when it is cold out.
like now, it comes half-an-hour later, guaranteed;
when it perfect out the bus comes on time…
the colder it is out
the later the bus arrives.
and this isn’t a joke this is real, scientific method real, tested.
this is an actual fact.
they asked so i told them, i love our talks.
he made it, great, goodbye.
but the truth is
one would figure these waits would get better
now that the Superbowl is coming to town.
but i guess not. not for the peasants.
us in servitude, making it to work and back
not having the magic platinum tickets, not insiders.
have to wait on ice packed glaciers between snow drifts.
global cooling is giving me frostbite and making me bitter.
across from the Goodwill at Fairview, near
some abandoned shopping cart excursion,
son in stroller, meth-addict twitching, calling
the Google schedule bullshit, smoking a cig.
don’t these things come every 20 minutes or so…,
give me a break–i mean seriously,
i don’t need this in my life,
no not when it’s negative 20.
then it floats up when you are moments from death, asking god.
this is, even while being secular and skeptical.
i think of summitting Everest and wait longer.
you know i probably could with this training.
though the oxygen tanks and Sherpa, i need them now.

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January 6, 2018

after climate change

i will tell you about the cold with frozen fingers,
draw you some greasy shapes on glass so you can’t miss.
i will tell you about the heat when the bill’s delivered,
asking you when the climate change is about to begin.

December 23, 2017

20 degrees outside twin cities

what we have here in real life.
it’s 20 degrees outside twin cities.
that could be a hotel.
this brickpath could be a house.
the sky is a sheen marble.
tell me what you think, what else?
it’s 20 degrees outside twin cities.
could take my chopper gloves off.
could lose this woolly hat.
because my head in the clouds
and there is no one around, that.
it’s perfect outside, twin cities.
there’s no reason to hide.
nothing but numbers and times
nothing but humans and climes
nothing but nothing, all right.
yet some would complain.
yet still some wouldn’t mind.
what we have here in real life.
what we have here outside.
i don’t think i mind.

December 6, 2017

really not sure

change fix solve cast dream: the things that define us non-animal in the kingdom sect and put us here with a bank account vanquished and time to dwell up our fortunes and the former. change fix tragedy nightmare.

from couch sit to morgue nap. from morning to twilight dusk. making things happen since 1987. a river ran through it. i am not sure where… time stood still. buildings came down for novel firmaments, questionable tenements where coffee shops once resided, mused, and inspired.

seen oceans drained in travel, bluffs grew in 10 minutes during a hike, a lifetime of praise ended by a verb on some capitalistic network citing neo-Marx. rather make change than complaint in the subzero sunlight. here for now, gone some time then. really not sure. i guess i guess.

and the really not sure bit, that’s true.

November 26, 2017

list of life and lists

a work                                                     of art in progress
such                              a sort of sorts
too much                                  of some things, nothings
a few       more beers, more cheers at the rail
of mice                           and men–books
a river                                    runs thr            ough it–fictions
lighting            the lights Riverside Park
dogs                  killing rabbits   in the backyard
in the                           morning                as
coffee          drips down, down, down, yum…
here the elevation                                     of the bluffs
is high                    as the heavens  call it home, come back,  call it home
a whole city below aglow,  November cold, no snow
sacred, blessed, meaningful flag waving above
bald eagles soaring on pause, floating: not sure what it sees
shining, driftless center like me
movement, more movement between
a city with its shit together
(they collect the leaves and
they have nice streets and it shows)
running in circles, no pot holes
talking the same, politics and pain
narratives of truthful ideas
narratives of appeal (so real)
exhausted we climb on
exhausted we climb on Eagle Bluff Trail
crumpled leaves and sweet sap
and a tree dying on top of an Impreza, I think
cafe jazzing my way through it all

November 17, 2017

paths (something rich)

where do we all go?
where do we all start?
i walked on a bridge early this morning
frigid cold–blurred sluice
and through a hall, stuffy
the men smelled good
or their musk did, anyway, like money–
reminded me of the dead
reminded me of my dad
tried so hard to impress all, everyone
who is that though, really?
nothing can’t know
can’t know nothing, so…
a bridge that tells us how it is, how to feel
tries to teach us clearly
and then tells us to just believe
it’s like this and like that and so on
hypothetically, imagine a bumper sticker:
don’t question the moon landing,
don’t objectively view the coldest November
in the hottest year ever,
some ideas rooted in beliefs–religion,
exactly explaining concepts that aren’t laws
with fluid language changing, unindelible,
to match your mood, now, or movement, then,
i am voting for the perfect robot in 2020…
still very hard to tell
we all can’t be English majors or theorists
where we are all from, just looking
but where we are all going to some day
that’s something rich

November 12, 2017

sunday apex

Beautiful Sunday morning
dark AM morphing from
empty pews’ attrited time
to quiet hymns breathing sigh

November 9, 2017

#2048

…cuts like lemon juice in fresh new wounds,
sun through a glass pane, on moving trains,
winnowed and splintered of some past, tracing paths,
shadows track, as setting chairs–act to react,
they read it then to them whose ears come aroused,
loudly now, then silent humming sounds,
falling as domino, crests, and November maple leaves,
falling on broken knees, scabs, and chipped shoulder blades,
here, found, at the entry way, at dusk, here, i wait.
found, enough to be lost and forgotten. then nothing.
then something about skewed imagery: everyday, everyday.

October 21, 2017

52 south in minnesota and some thoughts that i can’t escape like the blood on the highway and the lights up ahead

the dead deer leave their stains on 52 south
longer than the sun hangs in Oktober skies wide pale,
i hope to not create that sort of artwork tonight.
probably someone died in the accident at Coates.
glass, lights, backed up traffic and silence at the crossing.
entrails and scattered viscera, nature and force.
later, i hope this poem doesn’t take a dive on me.
matter and brain matter and matter matted.
where softly playing wind chimes alight and inflatable
Halloween decorations on the lawn greet us, hum.
barefoot in the street talking visas and books and
cars and presents, my mom’s birthday is this weekend.
above some star dies and the cemetery up the hill knows.
at least two beers on the couch, check in at motel home,
at least some pictures. my little man is awake past his bedtime.
teaching language in the morning, then they talk like me.
these strangers aren’t strange, they are nice.
wake in the morning. talk talk talk talk talk talk
talk talk talk talk talk talk. what’s the problem?
i know how she is when she is the way she is, love.
same costume as the last 5 years or so, goodwill find.
there is no surprise like there is no surprise.
an animal jumps in front of the dashboard, it’s a leaf.
there is not change there, no change there, there.
lock and dam no. 7 is an empty street where josh died.
dan will be at jules and wives will be in andere Staaten.
nextday i have coffee and talk to China and think
of the money that i don’t have and need to find somehow.
doesn’t matter, but that fucking deer is dead again now in my head again.

October 7, 2017

saturday morning with my grandpa (how i became me)

saturday mornings could smell
like burnt eggs
and old cigars stamped out years ago,
bacon grease splatting, hiss,
dogs wet fur from the rain coming down,
a damp dusty basement clouded,
unbrushed teeth speaking true words
to loved ones about what will be done
what we might get to,
grandma and grandpa and dad and cats in La Crescent
sitting in a wallpapered kitchen, rented out now,
pantry full, cooking bean soup on the stove,
waiting for NASCAR on sunday, those tomorrows,
and god, or the lord or heavens knows, who cares?
got to get better at it, all of it,
that smell reminds me of nothing now
and the dead and chopping wood in the forest,
and how he would show up with donuts
and his dog, in leather boots, early,
before most “hard workers” today even think about
getting up because he drove semi trucks
to where i live now, just south of us,
until in his mid-seventies,
when he first met me, 70 times my age,
and i can still smell that stuff upstairs.