third shift sunrise

did you fall

asleep with the book over your face and the light left on

your hand stopping to rest on top of your head your elbow locked up in the air

until it falls

and wakes you and finally you reach to turn out the light

head down resting on the seat back of the 2C bus after 1 am

you so tired so so tired

so hard worked n now done gone

fragile human

shift worked

deep breaths

fast asleep bouncing down Franklin Ave

fragile human

deep breaths

shivering in the falling snow at 4 am

your memories of her body soft n smooth n warm against you

your head bobbing against the tower head

it was only a little after 9 pm and you were falling asleep at the bar

fragile dreams to the beat of the moon n the sun

bouncing down Franklin Ave

poetry, prose

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December 9, 2012

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APPLICATION PROFILE

NAME: he went for a walk one cold sunday afternoon and 6 blocks away the church bells rang and he liked the distant sound as is as is as is

ADDRESS: this poets book that he had folded down the corner of almost every page over 14 years ago and that he reached for to read again once more

PHONE NUMBER: suckas can’t see so call me

AGE: at the show, moshed and kicked and drunken with a joyous smile yelling

WEIGHT HEIGHT: type one diabetes scaled me up and down

EYE COLOR: distant, nomadic, at home in you, eating up your blues

RACE: i came out of love’s oven motherfuckers didn’t have no say

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: expectations fuck up relationships yo best not trip on them thangs yo

DESCRIBE YOURSELF: the sweetness born of loneliness

EMPLOYMENT HISTORY: the effects come and then the effects wear off and the affects arrive and then the affects get laughed at

REFERENCES: his blood sugar had plummeted and he walked into the bar on Lake St. and ordered a stout and a mushroom swiss burger and it was the most satisfying meal he ever had once the shakes wore off

a questioning, essay, prose, Uncategorized

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November 25, 2012

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the stains of living as an independent man

he ate his breakfast over an 18 year old drafting table covered in pistachio green linoleum

he liked whole wheat toast with black currant jam and cinnamon raisin bagels with honey

buttered with salted butter

and sometimes buttered crumbs would fall onto what he was drafting leaving stains on the vellum

fall onto the parallel bar getting brushed out if it’s crevices weeks later 

and what he drafted didn’t pay for the crumbs that fell onto what he drafted didn’t feed him no

he worked 50 or 60 hours a week doing something else to pay for what he ate over his table

for the crumbs that fell

and in the dark cold morning as he ate breakfast before heading to this work

he knew it didn’t matter to him whether it was a drafting table or a dining table

and come friday night of a 57 hour work week he would imagine

these buttered crumbs falling onto the diploma he earned and his resume

the stains of living as an independent man in America more real than any identity

a questioning, essay, prose

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November 18, 2012

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the night before winter

he ran from his local bar on the corner of franklin and lyndale 

he had been standing outside in it’s fenced in smoking patio

watching lightning flash in november skies

distant thunder texting “god it’s so warm tonight” to his friend

 

he ran from his local bar on the corner of franklin and lyndale

after chugging the last of his 2 for one pints

seeing the rain drops falling heavy now

he ran down the empty alley

 

out onto 22nd and then down 2 blocks to the corner

“there was nothing there” at the bar he kept saying to himself

nothing there “to hold as the rain poured down” smacking his jacket

there’s nothing “there in these chemicals i eat” he said

 

nothing there “breathing deeply opening the door” to his apartment

untying his boots and listening to the rain

poetry

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November 11, 2012

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¿comprende? they fed me this night

 

yo tengo hambre, i’m starving by the time i reach the dinner party, i ring the door bell and a smiling face lets me in, it’s so crowded already, boots off i walk back to la cocina to say hello to the friend who invited me, 3 dudes already cooking, the smells, the energy, it’s beautiful, i find a cold negro modelo especial in a cooler, the first course, sopa de beans and bacon already warming my hands

 

the mexicanos y mexicanas, the chilenos, the guatemaltecos… i didn’t know any of them, but they fed me this night ¿comprende? they fed me. chicharron en salsa verde with even more fresh bright green salsa verde on top, chorizo con papas, slices of queso fresco y limon, sopapillas con bistec, pasteles de mango, all so bueno, as i drink vino chileno and squirt with patron silver

 

¿do you understand, amigos? they fed me this night, with laughter, with clapping hands slapping sopapillas, the stories of what they miss, another cold winter about to begin, la mezcla de culturas is aqui, ahora, as i stand in the entry to the cocina, soaking it all in with a smile as i would have if this night was in Santiago or Guatemala or Veracruz, this night in Minneapolis

essay, poetry

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November 4, 2012

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maybe the first time you really meet someone

 

maybe the first time you really meet

someone is when they play a song for you

it’s the first time you really heard this song

and this person is this song you sing to yourself

 

maybe the first time you really meet

someone it’s 12 years later

and, lover, what was never loved before get’s fucking loved tonight

 

maybe the first time you really meet

someone is when you’re in the same dream together

and your twitching bodies wake each other up only to find

their sweating beautiful face next to yours

 

maybe the first time you really meet

someone is when you finally say goodbye to them

your faces dropping tears erased 

 

maybe the first time you really meet

someone was the time you were making love to them

and the same the same the same the same yes the same 

yes was all you could feel

poetry

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October 28, 2012

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always ever thus loverman

you ladies always ask me why i am alone

you ladies always ask me why i am so quiet

 

you never just say

hi

 

and when you actually smile at me

your beautiful utterly sexy

i want you smile

you’re with another guy

poetry

,

September 15, 2012

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at the punk bar

beneath the precast concrete high rises clad with multi colored panels

sitting at the punk bar on cedar avenue

dudes with safety pins in their glasses

and girls covered with their serious tattoos

that mean be sharp to what i’m telling you 

and the hand drawn patches pinned on eisenhower jackets

and the jukebox full of punk rock songs

being fed constantly with dollar bills

that song that song

i suddenly remember jawbreaker being played loud from a friend’s car stereo

as we skateboarded through an empty parking garage

while it echoed through the forest of concrete

as now years later i silently sing along

beneath the precast concrete high rises full of immigrant families

out front of the punk bar on cedar avenue

teenage somali girls walking by laughing

covered in their hijabs

poetry

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July 29, 2012

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our lines that don’t exist

 

 

in the example above, locate the line where the sky separates from the water

and highlight the point where the water separates from the earth

where wet leaves dry behind

the heat rising from the earth

the water falling from the sky

the river running to the sea

in the box given, describe the moment where your eyes separate from their land

and her skin separates from his cloud

where you leave your reflection behind

the heat rising from the earth

the water falling from the sky

the river running to the sea

in the time given, fold up your life so that it fits completely in the small box you have been provided

and place your box amongst the other boxes so as not to make a sound or a pulse of light

where the future leaves your dreams behind

the heat rising from the earth

the water falling from the sky

the river running to the sea

with the remainder of your life, draw the boundary between their heart and your blood

and walk along a line that never existed until you drew it

where your life leaves love behind

the heat rising from the earth

the water falling from the sky

the river running to the sea

poetry

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July 23, 2012

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little piece

 

what i hold onto like the green channel buoy

anchored and straining against the current

my mind drifting troubled thought to troubled thought

as i stoop right on the edge

where the mississippi river’s water meets the sand

watching pieces of wood float in like the one above

which comes to rest right at my feet

bobbing 2 inches from the sand

ringed in phosphorous foam

complete with grass blades, a leaf, a cigarette filter

and a black carpenter ant

running back and forth across the piece of wood

stopping right on the edge

where the water meets the wood

putting it’s front legs out into the water

touching it’s antennas on the water back and forth back and forth

like it wants to swim that last 2 inches to land

and then pulling back and trying it again

and again

human being human being

don’t tell me

you haven’t been there

trying to get there

right on the edge

where your dreams meet this world as it is

floating on your little piece

poetry

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June 22, 2012

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