Posts tagged ‘twin cities’

April 15, 2017

Travel to La Crescent, Minnesota

why not leave at 6:30 pm
or 6:38, or whenever time,
no time no matter no worry,
cant think for not?
we go in wetting droplets,
Gods globulars hung at our mirrors
sluiced in the whatnot, and everyday.
Lexington Parkway traffic,
homeless with signs, traffic,
dampness seeps in the traffic,
94 traffic to 52 south.
we were full to the brim; kitchen sink.
sometimes i feel bad for them.
sometimes i feel bad for me.
more of want of wont of need, both agreed.
sometimes everything is always run on monies
so i work harder on Mondays come and see me.
Antony and the Johnsons loudly
and a Fistful of Love… you have never heard of.
the things we dont know are more poignant.
cut across a freeway, no freedom
on our way along the way to see some,
temped by wiperblade and dead deer viscera–
something scattered last week and foul
something old and brown and our future.
losing light like the night.
more south, St Charles, Rochester,
more south, Preston, Rushford, Houston,
into the deep croaking valley green
spawned ever by these roiling storms
kind that would hard driving make
then here now true.
i always wish to dine in Nodine.
then there on the hillside:
a blazing hot cross that says fuck you in passive aggressive
to the spoiled lot that whined about it from WI
extinguished from their special sensitive gaze.
a train that i didnt see but heard blew on by–
must be a metaphor for something…
look at that rambler, i want it.
we can leave whenever to wherever
but when we make it well know for not.
But when we left didnt matter really.

*
come to theorize:
perhaps Dale Earnhardt’s death
was the 9/11 of NASCAR…

March 24, 2017

my painting (even with tired eyes)

i woke up this morning
thought about
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.

February 18, 2017

this morning here is what i did…

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.

February 14, 2017

this poets plight

there are 10,000,000
of the same exact
trying
to do
what you want
to do… the same exact.
so, how do
you prove
what you have to
prove, the you
and what you do?
write about
social justice,
write about your
city, write
about oppression,
write about love,
or if you don’t feel it
fantasize about it;
society gives you truth.
(where is the lens?)
for me,
it’s different:
minimum parental leave,
as a dad,
diapers and breast milk,
little to no money,
full-time work with college debt,
no covered movement,
cis pale male,
no publisher,
i tell people what i think–
no groups,
no promotion to climb a ladder,
just words.
and i make myself happy.
yet still for a poet
like me
my plight isn’t
trendy…
there are bigger memes.
more advertisement to be had.
so forget it.
now, it doesn’t matter.

February 11, 2017

skill

these poets have got skill
they ought to make gods
out of straw men
with fists up to disrupt
in groups large enough
not to miss
but for a singular idea;
for the entirety
individuality has left the building
like they say Elvis once did
and
they prefer and
persuade yours’ gone too, verily–
auf wiedersehen, jetzt;
tho irony poses a problem
when
you think about that purpose
without thinking about that principle,
a group think showing
others to not think
for themselves: so don’t; ironically,
for some everything
can be a problem, depending on the message,
similarly with the critic
at a convention of their beat–they just have to;
still there is nothing new under the sun.
but as arms of automated
recycling trucks
reaching out with care
at soon to be new old shit
these poets
could fall like building 7
16 years ago September, to grey dust
by one true statement,
fall like a beggar’s budget
at two buck chuck,
and then break
their wrists patting their own backs
as if they made
that poignant prose
so much their own,
accordingly their every breathe
is arrogance.
let’s call it “skill” anyway.

February 4, 2017

some bright orbs are hated for their difference

i feel like a grapefruit in
an orange grove sometimes–
like shave, shower, shit;
alarm bells, scrolling the internet;
deodorant, brush, smile,
sweating thru, flannel, true;
Moby-Dick, Hitchens, and
Bukowski, metal ends
to my leather toes;
unknown and close, you would never know.
40 and holding, always weekly,
bitch and complain and shamed
but still nothing for change…
and when they peel my flesh to test
the citrus juice comes fresh,
more blood orange than a crate of grapes,
more real than fake.
and they talk about Onalaska
and La Crosse and La Crescent
like they are all me, and not.
something above it, but
a grapefruit in an orange grove,
thinking differently alot.
or i think i forgot,
but that’s no big deal anyway,
see what i look like, have a taste.

January 15, 2017

cord-cutters of the world, unite and take over

cutting the cord
i found that
Comcast is a triste tryst,

unknowingly before
but CenturyLink
changed this.

December 8, 2016

bundle up

ere the cold wind
hardened person debacle,
post-repast,
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.
swirling excitedly
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 20, 2016

Westgate

Dear person who wants to die at the Westgate train station, I’m sure the police officer doesn’t care if you like to hang your legs over the station by the tracks in the cool breeze near rush hour traffic, astride power lines and atmospheric pressure waves of interference. But you would be a hell of a something to clean up, so why don’t you give the fine transportation people of this lovely city a break and get back beyond the yellow line. I guess we are all trying to go somewhere, and not ruin an other’s day. No one is special, except maybe you.

September 16, 2016

pressing press

there are no carte blanche,
genuinely autonomous
scribes in this city.

everything for novel;
muse: money, fame, cohorts–
certain derivatives of old…

they want to be noticed
but not for such reasons,
for something like gods.

Zum Beispiel: nothing is fair,
i lost my one love,
no body understands me,
and something about trees.