“Well, Adam saw this tornado. “


it is that dust from a vacuum cleaner
in the farmyard between ground and green cloud.
all food into menacing gray Mr. Monster.
came again to grab me.
it’s whining puff,
sucking houses as white paper moths into its lamprey mouth.
there is a tall silver syringe jutting from fire station.
it is the radio tower’s ear , caught wind of Mr. Monster
long before we sought to catch sight and see the modest oblivion.
the tornado my brother told me about.

LAD to ARD 6/18


“South of Superior is where the past is a shadow without any trees”


after the springs drowns us in water,
and the great black cloud casts shadow,
got my jeep stuck in mushy swamp.
tires made their own graves of their own.
crows, bluejays duel over readily emptied air.
with suns eye on our backs,
we marched in marsh with me infront,hayfields surround.
behind a block memorial of Parkland potters grave are 2000-some dry-gray sized license plates,
and just a number in black font.
people under them, are full of sleep.
like them, we are numbers.
we are numbers.
we are sand.
we don’t own our lives, ever even in past tense.
of eternal ethereal we are the continuation of marigold fodder.

no cemetery trees, no flora of only yellow’d faded weeds.
i put marigolds near stone memoria,
where the past is a shadow without any tress
at Parkland poor peoples’ rest-in-peace place.LAD 6/18

“everything is breathable”

35923006_410438639471773_6174414941433364480_neverything is breathable , that day was sunnyside up. only one cloud had enough room in the sky.

then belch, a huge bark, a burp, came forth in large fiery heartburns.
carrying us all in a hard hell.
the Husky Refinery creating its own clouds in asphalt black, coal silvers, that pencil grays, ink black darks stung our air.
the sky was bit clouded.
the sky is not going to put up with this.
that dirt, ash is going into our attic.
What is the sun going to say about this vile vesuvius?

it was from library at the university with large see-through windows as television screens, an array of 5,000 cigars smoked at one time by one person and exhaled in continuing cumoliminbus.
that intimating imitation cloud , the permanent exhaust.
there is a fly-sized helicopter to swat the smokey fire beast.
i biked to home, head heavy upon the upcoming chernoybl.
i grabbed a World War Two gas mask, a bag, my medications, canned foods,
all in my jeep for evac.
i saw rows of cars on Hammond and Tower in a grocery line.
i joined the parade out , up, and over into Duluth.
i saw my city overlay and to see people grab pictures of that mass plume covering sleepily drip over the lake and city.
our city has been wounded from
that serene puffing oily grille,
carcinogens smelted that have sweet sweet death perfume that plume carried far sout
that horrendous holocaust, is going to slurp up drunk all the black bile in worlds stomach to the point of an empty toothpaste container.
coughing black oily aerosol.

now we are on guard always watching above our hair and behind our shoulders to see what color the sun and sky is,
since devious oil fire has infiltrated our healthy oxygen.
we have to disarm that hydrogen fluoride.
the earth-skyblanket is scratchy enough from that gray itchy wool stocking let loose
with an indifferent petroleum curse.
LAD to jim paine 6/18

“Forget all the possible memories”


my despair, ambivalence, and laughs are plastered within each hall.
it is here , under, this campus air,
i found my compass for the beginning of my social and political maturity.
with you friend, i have made mistakes and had to leave, leave from you.
I could not protect you, my hands were not large enough,
my voice could not echo better to keep danger off.

When i heard you were gunned down on Halloween,left broken as a pumpkin,
i did not know if i wanted to mourn or organize for retribution.
but if you believe i grieved in sullen silence.
a piece heart burnt.
Before they bulldozed Rothwell and buried our memories with that cut off appendage.
Now we bury the rest,
Only one person can go into the coffin, and there you go alone,
brick by brick,
while the murderer think it’s her duty to
shovel dirt over you.

I have graduated with someone else,
but you Superior are my true alumni,
who gave me a tough tongue, and how to direct my screams,
and how to look people in the eye,
so to other friends of the future, forget all possible memories,
and for those untasted remembrances
we know the assassin who did this to our friend,
And we,
What ,
Revenge is,
And what it means to never, never forget.
LAD to UWS 4/18

“ i feel a winter to be depressed in”


Lutheran church has its tall owls face and spires for horns
snowy wonder covers
All owl vision.
Tis ziggurat for their
Cloudgods grating coconut and sugar thick as mites
In a snow globe , i feel a winter to be depressed in.
To justify snorting bad habits that may bring
Agents into the cold with me.
Tis the season to not get dressed, be very naked while white male to watch winter continue in solitary confinement.

LAD 5/18

“Cuban exhibit”


@ cuban exhibit the spectators looking at the art are the subject,
I want to go into themselves
To pick the fruit of what they are thinking
The art can get in their brain, but i can’t.
Maybe the minders can:these secret police of Walker Museum kultur.
Their posts held by art students at the tip top of their performance career,
Restricting the thunder of museum movement.
Philosophers have written this up so well.
LAD 3/18