January 28, 2017
an empty glass
with coins. $52.something.
turned into food.
the capital hanging
its pale dome
on the dim shoulders’
of University Ave
in the fore.
there, loving couples
at a cross-
and am now.
the statue of liberty
played by a man,
holding this bright sign:
we pay cash inside,
how american, on this corner.
i sit in a turn
pulling to the side,
brown bags and
local ipas in the trunk,
mouthing an old song
in Drive–mechanic’s glove hands,
tight grip on
the supple wheel.
all before 11 am
crossing Lexington Parkway
and light rail tracks
in St Paul, going, hungry, mad.
and then, thinking of
a hotel in Belfast
conversing continental divides
and the divided conversation,
and the painted murals,
people took photos
on their phones
inside of a bus because we couldn’t safely get out.
January 10, 2017
sometimes a person needs
a new pair boots,
needs to fix
what has been broken
needs to rid themselves
of the old soles
with something other
than another fix;
shed skin, sink hulls.
a thing entirely new.
smelling of plastic
and soft chemical.
and O’ feet feel so much better now.
and O’ a few bucks flew away.
walking on, like butter.
walking straight away.
January 1, 2017
the year 2017, wow, is going to be 365 new ones,
with bubbles, pink shrimp and bloody Rib-eye.
Less of a killer hangover for new dads,
more time to think on things that happen.
Watching church shows: Joel Osteen,
for his positive message: no god, no. Imagine.
probably atrocities, probably anomalies;
probably complaints—and still, who cares?
Sunday, January 1, 2017… no 6 anymore.
Don Lemon’s pierced ear, tequila shots
and a fake wall built on the Washington Ave bridge;
like the Titanic museum in Belfast, UK,
the building is shaped like an iceberg;
where contradictions lie in wait and wait.
A coffee cup of coffee, within it false creamer.
Ersatz-politics adumbrate plastic news, woo.
All for salubrious sorts and their goodly peers.
Have a great time, everyone, welcome to day one.
December 12, 2016
one time, jess and i drove to canada
in a small chevy truck. we stayed along
lake superior and its blowing winds. thought
cedar greens would snap. got to tofte at
about 8:35pm, couldn’t see the site.
a ranger called that morning told me they plowed it.
slept on hard rock ground, no foam mattress.
woke up found we were at the shoreline,
read a death in venice. made coffee,
warmed fingers, walked in snow. thought
of my dad and how it was 70 in the cities.
we drove north, had pizza at sven and ole’s;
i had a beer, got in the truck; then crossed
the border past an endless sea of pine, rocks,
and blue water mass. got stopped, wouldn’t
let us through. stayed at an airnb…
won loonies at some casino, tipped very well.
everyone asked us why we traveled north for spring break.
drank bulleit rye in a sauna and turned into a jerk.
got lost. got deals at target. watched
forensic files, ate pancakes, and we became
international travelers; drove to another country.
just like that, for a thought. and i don’t
know, thought i would recount that situation.
it was good. crossing borders, it was nice
seeing things outside of an america lens.
December 8, 2016
ere the cold wind
hardened person debacle,
i become less like
those who represent me
and more like myself,
still running from its presence.
we are found, as errant snow
in misplaced cracks
along the street–
never should have been there.
at the bus stop proper
under pink and sable skies,
this industry: dying trees, real waits,
away from it all,
lights out in the house,
purely darkened for late payments.
a book stands in my side pocket,
slick along the turns,
a clear door opens, “Hello, sir.”
and then the same door closes again
to shield me from it.
ere the cold wind, just as
it touches me whole.
September 4, 2016
52 south past Greg’s Meats and a spired oil refinery,
if i were a plotting baddy it would be Mount Rushmore
for symbolism and confusion of the masses.
an open highway before us: droves on phones,
and couples on parade; the rich in their luxury sedans
and country in super duty small dick specials.
dashboard view of master photography, one that could
inspire a journey home, or west, or to new horizons,
something bold and powerful like in health magazines;
in old lands, which are new and no one could care less—
it means something on instagram or facebook or twitter
but beyond it’s malarkey. but really, i usually wonder about
the next rest stop; Gatorade makes me shit and coffee
makes me piss and light nagging hangovers do wonders
for my guilt and humbleness. kids on the way, us kids.
a dog barks in the morning minus its shock collar. this escapism
from a city to a town, needing to find something in nothing,
no more labels that matter, just gathering cut wood
from neighbors who are dead and the living ones
didn’t like their beautiful red and green maple trees,
still we did. logs season enough in a year to make
smoke, to make fuel, ash, what we rode in on. washed and
cleaned and we pulled our mirrors out and met meine Schwestern
am die Ecker squealing tires, snapchated that.
and then we were off to southern homes like ma’s pasta,
like baked goods revamped, like a road less traveled
what should be traveled more. sunday mornings
waiting for the paper, fixing engines to make money.
all is well, birds can tell, and i don’t get their songs.
May 24, 2016
what full moon fulfillment
on a waxen radiant light
our paths came guided open
in shadows of the night
April 13, 2016
Sitting in an Iowan hotel room tithing away
a skinny television talks while i am alone;
and people find problems in commercials,
can’t find desperate fix in their own homes.
one beer and then i walk the town,
this feel has me opening wide eyes.
December 29, 2015
we were a dark pink
dawn over Paris
the Libertines of
of Aran nights
ferry and bus rides
to another time
we were an ocean away
and of new mind
with wide eyes
of grand sights
abroad we travelled
abroad we’d find
we were inventing
Ireland, we were alive
December 27, 2015
I find myself
as a vehicle,