Cordiality

There's no special reason
to write today.
Nothing exciting to write about.

Just a day off from work
I didn't get up early
I woke up with a cat
on my stomach and got coffee
and shook some hands
and talked about coffee
and shook some more hands
and talked about the weather
and the heat and the weekend
and then rode off racing down the street
and marveled the Hyperion hills
or Silver Lake hills or whatever
and heard about a friend's good
news and talked about love
and drank water and talked about
relationships how do you know
if it's you or the other person or
just the essence of relationships
don't know me either, but on to
the hypocrisy of parents
and the merits of gambling.
Again, nothing special
to write
about.

Then someone backed into my scooter
and yelled about
my parking space this
my parking space that
I thought
I could say fuck you
but it wouldn't be worth it
so I made sure my scooter
would ride and said
lady it's okay move on
and finished the cup of water
I'd been drinking
and shook some more hands.
Oh I forgot to mention
I looked at sunglasses.
Oh well
nothing special.

Summer Hats

Forecasting the week to be fatiguing...

Come home, Friday.
Come back days
when excitement ran rampant
on a good Friday.

Maintain an august face
and settle in to watch the evening
as hometown conversation
transpires to tattoos.

Partial epiphanies in the desert;
we're all at war with our
partial, evasive epiphanies
during the succeeding days.

Fatigued Orchards

In a mess of just in cases
they concede and are on the go.
Nevermind the walks
to get to know the neighborhood.



The muffled
I wishes and widening gaps
between aspirations and real things
have led the youth to sit dumbfounded
at the sidewalk in front of the cafe.
They are small and weak and half
naked.


The more things that can be said
personally the better.

Points of Origin

Losing ground like being scared
of people who travel too much.
Who are they going from?

or to? even though I suppose
I do the same.

Lost paperwork that someone said
was important, so points
of origin
will reveal themselves
at the bakery, at the damnedest of times.

I grew up an orphan:
my sister out back losing her mind.
I grew up at the side of the road
early one morning.
All that matters
sometimes
is a drink.

Out in the sun all that matters
is a good handshake and sunglasses
to keep the moment, to maintain
a dance, to include someone.

Supple time in the trees
leads to swaying
embraces and vigor
and days later,
a last smell of the fireside sweatshirt
before washing the ash away.

Creasing the Noon Hour

Spring breaks into the bones.

Like our first trip to Florida
when Coke was clear.

Seeing those palm trees
was like a great night's rest
when we first pulled in.


Today my tired eyes and tired fingers
are agreeing with the rest of me

in wanting nothing more.

Take the Few Hours

Take the ones you need
and gloss the night away.

Spend a lunch reworking the views
and squeeze a lime to let it

clarify where it needs to fit in
and trickle into the streets.

Spring Promises

There's a tank that I'll haul
to prove to the years
and to excite a calm embrace.

Together for us summer will come.
My ruby-throated arm will burst and bow.

I heard a Southern accent
in my tones last night so
things are slowing down.

See us in the wind.
See us eyes closed
with a basket in the wind.




© 2008, Jared Linzmeier

A Chair That Stays Still

Some days worth is judged in the hands.

Hands wrapped together on the forehead

and hair thoroughly gone through.

It's in the need to rest and the amount of hurt.

Pocket the sunglasses and cast off a button.




© 2008, Jared Linzmeier

Barely Then Hands Out

Is that an image meant to conjure
a frosty train window twinkling years gone by

or are you just happy to see me?

Your eyelids look different this season
now they're red like they were last fall.

Is that how much a back can hurt
stretches out on the wood floor out back

or are you watching me let go?

I've been simmered and sad and behaved
and hearing the fiery songs these summer-like days.



© 2008, Jared Linzmeier

All Awashing Station

The loose afternoon wills
that we recommend a day off

boogie til your boots break in,
but don't call in sick.

My breakfast ritual tasted
at least five years older today.

Waiting for Convenience

I'm avoiding the Lincoln Park office with
all my might that's for sure

and swinging down the street
singing stone blind love.

Bixel Street screamed go Dodgers in the scheme
and together it's broken dark pints

dearly akin to soccer potential
footballing royal blues.

The kids are back from Austin
glassy and fatigued: new breathing exercises

maybe they'll be ready for park fires
maybe they're dancing to the movies

maybe they'll remember garbage day now
or will burn from the ready gods at our heals out here.*

No one knows how to throw a punch anymore.





© 2008, Jared Linzmeier





*This line inspired by the poem "Los Angeles" by Charles Bukowski