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.
i woke up this morning
painting a painting,
put the colors in it,
gave it detail,
and so it was.
minor moves in maelstrom.
then i called it my own
and asked for a museum,
a place for it to
be put up in,
a place for it to call home.
eye of the storm, so settle in.
and then i woke up again.
and then i found my painting.
and then i found my museum.
to the leeward we form.
looking at the mirror
even with tired eyes.
thank you for this day.
morning sun came painting houses
down the block with its invisible brush,
a car sitting outside defrosted
its alabaster exterior,
and John Denver crooned to me thru Google Home
years before his plane crash demise,
talking of Colorado, reminding me of Coors Light–the beer.
Effulgent as the shines spire,
one that Ahab loathes, I realize Uptown
is still intact. Still too cool. Saw buildings rise
like noonday heat, anon, now, fast, quick, ungodly.
realized old ones, their stone facades
still gazed at the new, different,
removed crowd below. Same. something strange,
something with pretense; something–why, you, there!
and it was rocky mountain high and country road
take me home, something American,
something America. going here again,
i too am different. Same. eyes seen things.
notice the art of apology is dead, humor too,
notice tell of another hang-over had by all for naught.
something stirs and people
describe it in a way not the same, unique to them only.
not the same. not the same. as this area.
uptown is still intact.
uptown as a bit more jaded, me.
5:12 AM a teapot steams and sputters,
wet me and drying hair,
i’ve been told they needed something to escape.
the furnace rumbles to a start,
to a certain temperature–it has a point.
machine better than most people.
Katy bar the door on things.
i am thankful that i worked hard
as a child–being brought up,
i feel that unlike my contemporaries
i could handle the outcome of an election,
the outcome of not getting what i want,
had i voted differently,
had i actually cared about results
that didn’t really do more than i did.
thanks dad. and what does that amount to?
some teapot and hanging drape,
teaching English in another day all the same.
what are countries anyway?
5:12 AM, made it, sore tooth, jaw killing,
take meds, fallible and flawed and dying,
i see, i hear.
this green tea in me for the better.
i suppose it’s better for you too.
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.
i scaled the skin off of my feet
with some sponge
so i could sleep, this was 11pm.
i thought of how an acquaintance spoke of incompetence,
Putin, and being a gun-owner
all in one Letter to the Editor.
that is where you will find the news today.
you will not find sleep there.
you will find sleep in scrubbing clean.
my feet were in silent torment, sorrow.
i wonder about
how contagious this might be.
i wonder about the water down the drain,
where it goes
and how it makes me tired.
my toes dry straight up in twilight air
and the dim light of night
that sticks from a wall socket.
thank god for that creme.
and that others got real problems,
ones they can sleep on.
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.