#wisconsin
Swaying curtain in the window,
airguns after dinner,
broken doll on the highway,
a promise is a promise.
The small winters
in the corner of her eyes,
Mom and Dad, they hold serve
in the garden, at the office,
no one is watching as she reels,
hurt whispers on.
Walking past stones and trees,
the bones of things,
coming at it all wrong,
this time she makes a promise,
under a name that hides her.
Dec 16, 2024
Dec 16, 2024 at 8:24 PM UTC
There once was a man from Green Bay
Who made it a habit each day
To ****** an udder
While churning his butter,
Then go for a nap in the hay.
Oct 12, 2024
Oct 12, 2024 at 11:33 AM UTC
Melting snow and chill winds.
Wisconsin spring days,
where the only heat is the sun's rays
through a clear sky.
***** snow piles
on the sides of the street in the city.
Puddles on cracked concrete.
The scent of unveiling foliage
on the breeze.
Quiet moments alone,
the calm before the storm.
Dead to the world
but never feeling so alive
as thoughts creep in.
Wishing things could've been different
Wishing no one had to be wounded so.
Take me back to slow life.
Take me back to no cares.
I wasn't planning to survive.
Sep 23, 2022
Sep 23, 2022 at 12:01 PM UTC
Well Trump thinks he's found an ally
And he's ah shill, to Trump ah thrill
He's as broken as Texas asphalt
With Paxton came his crooked game
So leave Wisconsin alone
Leave Wisconsin alone
It’s not for you to plead
Elections been decreed
You shouldn't be here, your case is *****
Your words unspool, brakes all the rules
He just lies so to gain his entry
Into Trump's world, his case unfurled
So leave Wisconsin alone
Leave Wisconsin alone
Its not like you don't see
An election as clean can be
Some Supreme Court day the hands of time
Will have their way
You’ll understand why what you do is not okay
Trump's a loser, he’s not the winner
He still finds hoods to do no good
He only wants to get praise and money
Cadillacs and rust, diamonds and dust
So leave Wisconsin alone
Leave Wisconsin alone
It's not like you don't see
An election as clean can be
Yeah, leave us Sconnies alone
Leave us Sconnies alone
He’s not like you and me
He needs to let us be
Dec 9, 2020
Dec 9, 2020 at 10:34 PM UTC
⠀⠀⠀ we (us, earth
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ and.⠀⠀⠀your
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ grasses
) have
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀this time frozen for just you
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and me
⠀⠀ today
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀come to think of it, it’s
⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ w o n d e r f u l
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ b
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ u
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ t
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀what will happen
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀when
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ w
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ e
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
retrace our steps (in
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ reverse, or sdrawkcab
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀) , a
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ n
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ d
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀then find that
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ we’re firmly
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
rooted in tomorrow- oh i don’t want
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀that
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀only this romantic
lovely
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
now
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 5:48 PM UTC
When I was growing up in Wisconsin, dairy farms were everywhere. It was always fun visiting my aunt and uncle's dairy farm, even though they put me to work. For many years the only bathroom they had was away from the house! I read an article today about people complaining about smells coming from dairy farms and pig farms. It reminded me when our family would drive the 3 1/2 hours to visit Grandma and Grandpa. Some farms hardly had any bad odor, but others reeked! This was especially horrible to us city kids. "Mom, what's that smell?" my sisters and I would ask every time. We asked Mom because she'd answer us. Dad would only laugh. Good times!
Midwest dairy farms
intermittent putrid stench-
fun childhood road trips
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 9:01 PM UTC
Fly home, to the bittersweet,
to the mill pond with the fuzzy water—
that thick green scum—or "scuzz" as you called it—
where the bullheads hid—
a can of corn could catch them;
I saw ghosts across in the cemetery—
visiting graves with their cold white orchids
and speaking of life like it passed already
on the old freight train that sometimes
crossed those bridges;
somewhere beyond, an old Native died—
at the end of his trail, not a song left to sing,
though now of course, he’s immortal, in bronze,
in his saddest pose,
on his darkest day;
in the center of town are the great prison walls,
a limestone reminder of who we are not,
and who, if we hated our gods, could become
in the blink of an eye—
in the absence of love;
and home is the smallest house on the street
near where our mothers made parts for the War,
and if I get the time, I ought to visit that place,
to fish in the pond—
and catch up with old ghosts.
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 12:45 AM UTC
this is my favorite pair of jeans.
they fit my legs tight and then loose and the color keeps to itself.
this is my favorite sweater.
it keeps me warm and it’s the color of moss.
i’ve been wearing the same shirt for three days, but i’ve showered between those days
i’ve been seeing you for a week but you’ve talked to your girlfriend between those days.
my neighbor threw my clothes on the floor cause he needed the dryer
so now i have to wash them all over again and i don’t have $3,
the machine ate two so i only have one left
your copy of rear window is on my floor.
your copy of monty python is on my floor.
thick hair, thick hands, thick wool,
i’m thinning but you’re only getting warmer
i’m tired of men entering my life and taking all of my heat right before winter comes.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
Standing by a lake
It is simple
Though this feeling is not
One that cannot be contrived
Nor bought
Only caught
In places like this
When God leans down from heaven
To plant a kiss
Feel your worries blown away
See the waves TOSS, them away
Sleeping heart awake
It is a brand new day
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
Origins of these golden hairs
My confidence hasn't died with you
Picture frames, store bought frames
With families already inside of them.
Glowing lights, described
Inside a children's book.
Riddled with sexuality and cruelty-
Golden lions abate them.
The standard has now been risen, keep up while you can
Short legs dragging through airport
Corridors so many businessmen
Envy-driven and greed-streaked
Cannibals in arm's reach.
My furry caterpillar claws
Your bite-sized lips, bright red
From kisses past tense. Storm fires Pouring igneous dark matter and gold
Into a deep mystery, well mostly just a mystery to me.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
I can’t say we’re the same but I too have lost large parts of me to greener pastures
Your dark bricks turn to dust and paint the snow a red maroon
“The stories they’d tell”
Says everyone sad to see them crumble but not sad enough to do anything about it
“Someone should do something”
Someone, but not they
Milwaukee I too am a lot like you, if you only knew
How far I slid sickly over the Kinnickinnic oil slicks
Past fallen trees and draining pipes
Until being caught by a shopping cart
Left on the muddy banks by some poor poor impoverished soul
Who also didn’t really care enough to return it to the Pick & Save
From which it was taken
I’ve sure seen better days and I too have come a long way
Like I got on to Fond Du Lac Avenue and kept walking
Until I reached
Well...
Fond Du Lac
Like I ascended Kilbourn Park with a pick-axe
Defeated the yeti on top and shoved your blue flag
Through his heart, cracking it open like a Pabst or Schlitz can
and dropped a quarter in a homeless guy’s jar
And he told me I was just like you
I can too burn bright like the foundries in the valley
Or roar like railcars and rattle the south side
Or be courageous like the captain
Sailing to Muskegon
Over choppy freshwater treachery
I can shutter in peace like your factories when I fall asleep
And never wake back up
I can drive all my loved ones away
Just like you have
For the past five decades
I’m exactly like you
Because I too
Wait for a sunnier day
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
Roughly six-hundred-and-two packs of cancer sticks later,
I don't feel as sick as therapists have said I am to be.
That means twelve-thousand-and-fifty-three cigarettes have been consumed
in the past three years by me,
in which I'm surprised my lungs haven't had to be exhumed from my barreled chest.
I'm surprised I haven't died,
or contracted a malignant growth in my throat,
or excessive tar in these lungs that hold me up,
or haven't choked on the smell,
or haven't wrecked a car while dropping a smoke into my lap.
Now all of my cigarette burns are marks from the slight curve
of smiles I've found in sad people spending their valuable seconds on letting smoke settle in.
I've been using stupid cancer sticks to curb this constant anxiety I brought upon myself.
In prison they use cigarettes as currency, I always say I want to be wealthy with passing away faster,
it makes me feel oddly sentimental knowing I'll be closer
to friends I once hid away with and shared moments
over cigarettes.
But back to my point,
way back then, when I met you.
I didn't want to smell like smoke,
I didn't want you to hate it on me.
I didn't need to curb the anxiety.
I didn't want to taste like lung cancer.
I didn't want to remind you of what you hate.
It's late notice, but you were my nicotine sprinkled with cyanide, arsenic
(rat poison), butane, ammonia, menthanol, carbon monoxide, and paint,
but you weren't cancerous, contrary of what you always say.
I was the carcinogen that would've made you die if I had stayed.
You don't know I wanted to, though,
I wanted you addicted, but I'm a cigarette with remorse;
we both wanted more,
and I miss you like eight hours away from the seven minutes I take off of my day.
I didn't want to **** you, though you may be scarred,
I wanted you to be alive and generally unharmed.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
It is near Minocqua Wisconsin,
along Lake Placid,
on the Lac Du Flambeau Reservation.
Majestic Pine Trees,
Maple Leaves,
and the haunting echo of the loon.
The district attorney of Illinois
my Great Grandpa, George Hall
this was his cabin.
My grandmother, Georgia and her sisters
on the walls, her sister Rosa
looks a bit like me, she died at 16.
I have a relative,
can’t remember who, but he died in
the chair I still like to fall asleep in.
They say he had a peaceful slumber
My father’s sailboat parked within the trees
what adventure this boat entails
the wind and water, lets me feel free
Can’t wait until I can sail on the sea.
The old canoe lays by the lake
I always imagine, the Native people
here before I, their land,
which I now call my own.
The Lake of Torches Casino
now what they call their own.
I admire the
beauty of their tradition, rich in spirit
finding peace with mother earth--
musical flutes and tribal drums,
I am connected to my creator.
A family jewel,
I hope it always remains
rich in history,
the enchanting sound of the murmuring pines
a part of me, my favorite place to be.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC