Sunday, August 28, 2016

gradually hear them having sex in the room next door
the walls are thick and only a very distant rhythmic thumping
a cycle that speeds up sounding so far away
you have to be aware of it first and then at length you realize
there is a good screw going on getting better n better
while trying to take a fucking nap

then slip away dream of oceans of tides currents
diving deep under water where the kelp sways
in columns woven with schools of fish
bubble rising bobbing swaying
waking up a silent 4 o'clock in the afternoon
next door very quiet


i read the ancient poet's writing
beyond any i hope to make

i am looking out a window
seeing the thunderstorm soon will be here
like past writers

we shared a window and a sill
specks of water
and a view

drapes rise fall
then blow into the room
as the thunder and wind arrives


Maple Grove

dream construction
sculptures of yesterday today tomorrow

workbench first cleared
then assemblage built like a mobile

thoughts and feelings
hanging from threads of recollection

every fact or facet
turning in relation to the others

4th dimensional
inside a 4th dimensional stream

when i wake up
i become aware of my own life

a model of thoughts
like the airy thing i make in dreams

i can craft the day
into any turning gliding path i want

i want to tun to jump to explain
o hateful explanations or explaining

like the woman in the church
who corrected the portrait of christ

stroke on stroke
into a monstrous joke

word by word
i turn the truth into a baboon

vanity and lack of skill

i see places i belong
like in a wood sitting on a dunghill

i could talk to any passers by
give them thoughtful useless advice

but it doesn't pay


Maple Grove

wishfully find me

in minnesota
standing by a lake
with a lutheran church
in the distance

is like saying

find me i'm by
a stoplight
on the corner of a road
in an unnamed town

but do remember me

a fall a winter
will make wonder
will mute
some other feeling

if you do recall me

i will have
thought of you too
never believing
you owed me anything

and isn't that nice

Sunday, August 21, 2016

a coursing river broad
with a piece of wood
floating to the falls
where all will keep going

the wood does not mind
nor does the river
only my eye and brain
has questions of

but the sky
such grand clouds
suppress my ability to think
i become like what i see
flowing flowing


At the First Bridge
st. anthony falls
pride of minneapolis

shown to visitors
near and far

blast of wind
off curtains of water

then above
the drop

a placid

of the first bridge

mississippi lingers
by banks of reeds

this city
tied to the river

defined by it
imagined in it

mind and fate

all in and of
the mississippi

the river
will last forever

is never the same
for one moment

from the water

st. anthony falls
pride of minneapolis



Tuesday, August 09, 2016

i can't stop dreaming of you
you show up every few months

this time wearing white
with a white satin on the sashes

i have never seen you wearing all white
but it looked good

i said hello with you sitting there
you were sitting on the floor happy

when i said hello i grabbed your hand
and i squeezed your fingers a few times

a bit harder and longer than was polite
because i miss you

when i see you in a dream
i feel like crying

it has been three years
since you passed away

i hope i never stop dreaming of you
because it feels real when i see you

i hope i will always see you sometimes
because it feels as real as me
typing this poem


for Tsedrup Tharchin

Friday, August 05, 2016

i need to wake up
but i can't wake up
but i must get up
in ensenada

a hot bed and a fly
that keeps landing

crawling on my leg
while inside i have
a physical chemical
so so so so so so so

the hotel room
twisted sheets

killing me with a fly
and a hot white room
in mexico hotel
with the staff waiting

last night was so fun
so much promise

i'd even cry
but everything hurts
so i go into a dream
that does not hurt
of giant colors

flying with an
in one hand and a bible
in the other

and i'm clean
and good

over all

of ensenada

Monday, August 01, 2016

i tap on my window
wipe frost off the pane of my own mind

bringing day to night
or night to day to the house in my head with slates for a roof

if you see my silhouette in the window
you'd mistake me for someone else

i'm outside just like you
waiting to get in

say in a field or a home
wouldn't that be nice

where you can take
off all your cares & read

or if words were like
a helping hand x 2

this poem like
a kind old lady

or a lost uncle
who has a million bucks

but why would you or
i want much

knowing what comes in
must go out

but wouldn't it be nice
to find aladdin's cave

to have a golden touch
or ice cream body

and give it away
all day for free