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  Aug 2020 NewCaleBoy
Kyle Kulseth
Cold nights
               It's always Winter here.
It seems this season's stretching on all year.
               The beers are gone
               so let's get walking.
    your coat and let's do some talking.
Loud, through the night.
Know our strides will crunch through old snow
beneath old street signs.

      ­                                   bets aside,
                                    did you gamble
                                       on my days?
                               Did I waste your time?

Days come early,
nailguns out.
Walls go up and ambitions drown.
4 blocks down the street, you're screaming,
"**** the cold and this town. I'm leaving."
                     Sheetrock walls
               and paycheck borders
                     keep us pinned,
                in line, on short order.
                    our­ melting brains.
                        Froze in place
and broke your heart, rinsed me down the drain.

Cold nights
               It's always Winter here.
This frigid season's stretching on all year.
               The beers are gone
               so let's get walking.
    your coat 'cuz them ghosts been talking.
Howling each day.
Haunting all our snowbound steps and
rattling their chains.

                                          Alarms and cars
                                        and pulsing hearts.
                                        prices paid to make
                                                our wage.

                                         The clocks in bars
                                       count tarnished stars.
                                         prices paid to pave
                                                 our ways.

      ­                                   bets aside,
                                    did you gamble
                                       on my days?
                               Did I waste your time?

Days come early,
nailguns out.
Walls go up and ambitions drown.
2 blocks down the Ave., I'm shouting,
"**** the wind and the snow that's pounding."
                     Rent check walls
               and sheetrock borders
                     keep us pinned,
                in line, on short order.
                    our­ melting brains.
                        Froze in place
and broke my will, rinsed you down the drain.

                                            And I'll move

                                                4 blocks

                                              next Spring...
  Jul 2020 NewCaleBoy
Where Shelter
all three came and gone,
I’m in the slow poke lane,

my days in the passing lane,
driving like a crazy man while
composing poems @85 mph

they, you, slowed me down,
teaching the old dog an old
lesson: new tricks are for the

children I’m leaving behind,
as they pass by speeding to
god-knows-where, and-why

there are no more queens in
my boogie nights, love a some
time thing, but what I know this:

when I ran, the wind was running
behind my back, and pushing me
hard to travel non-stop, what I think

about is this, my arms child-extended,
like a jet’s wings, the wind streaming
over my foils, I knew better-than-good

scratched my mark in the soil, still
finding my spot, to drop down and
write these words, to sleep in peace
  Jul 2020 NewCaleBoy
clear conscience
don’t work no more.

need some kind of distraction.

**** it, might as well try writing

bad poetry.
  Jul 2020 NewCaleBoy
Path Humble
~for Dante Rocio, who shares visions~

-from where does inspiration come from?

intimacy with the inanimate,
the population of objects,
coarse, beauteous that provoke,
the museums, the gutter, the worn,
the just unrealized, imagined,
learning to speak hearts
to speak the heart language

from animated blood, eyes, taste buds,
when you pass thru the molecules of me,
by contact real or imagined,
desperation, satisfaction organic,

where do these questions arise,
the answers as well,
they are tangible, yet intangible,

a notion indistinct,
an untraceable path,
hidden routers,
deflecting reflecting,
even a current direct,
invisible to the naked

from where?

a fair question,
answers, unreliable,
for in the forming,
the froming
is always

June 2014
  Jul 2020 NewCaleBoy
no truth login
to the edge and back (inverted diversion)

your life may throw you curves,
mine, straight edge blades,
lines galore, like sidewalk cracks,
jumping from safe to safe place

but always teetering tottering on
edges, like verses in the next poem,
trying to make it just to the next line
without falling in cracks, China bound

you can follow my lead, don’t though,
if I could, would willingly plunge, deeply,
for there is no safety in safe spaces, only
in the holy dark, cracks is the true safety

you seek, where poems roll on a highway
like Reno tumbleweed, humble before snow
capped mountains, these are the contrasts
where you birth procreations, poems yours

and mine die in childbirth,
returned to sender,
returned for retuning,
despair not, they’re coming
back to this world

guises in a different colored skin,
a different alphabet, script,
the meaning yet unchained and
unchanged, despite the

  Jun 2020 NewCaleBoy
it’s a daiquiri colored morn, countlessly
as I, gazing never tiring, of a vista I’ve seen,
awoken to, endlessly changing, voyagers of
birds and boats, the redecorating minimalists,
moving pieces on a latticed shadow lawn

the Sun eastern, asking the trees to turn and bow,
hence the shadows their branches cast are a waffling,
hopscotch pattern irregular, so jumping from/to
yellow-green sunspots, the children are delighted by a
new game, moving to and from and between an ever
changing crazy chessboard of light-patches unsquared

described, written of, yet here I am, once again, a servant
despairing, looking for new combinations of superlatives,
though I never spoke before of it as a vista,
until today, wondering why, perhaps because
it’s here, one lives, one doesn’t conceive of  being
part and parcel of a vista, humans, just visitors,
pawn observers, gallery visitors, art appreciators,
transient hobos after forty years, truthfully claiming
that they’re merely still, passing thru, passing by

9:40 am, respectable hour to meander over
to the throne room, the four Adirondacks, them,
the year round poetry nook authorities, are equal
sunned, shaded, simultaneous, stately shadowing,
observing, advertising as perfect for composing,
willing to make verbal suggestions, rhyming notions,
especially when the poem pays proper obeisance

and so it does, and so it is, as you can clearly read

9:53am Sunday Jun 14
Year of the Pandemic
see cover photo
  Jun 2020 NewCaleBoy
many women do yoga.
many men do ***.

women prefer,
ah, never mind,
you know how that ends!


If we draw a
Venn diagram,
one circle, yoga,
the other, ***,

in the middle,  
overlapping sector,
is the
Venn Zen Intersextion
well I’m chuckling and I WAS paying attention in 10th grade Math

google search Venn Diagram Templates. Very Erogenous!
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