shored up in panera just waiting for a home

Apple harvest bread bowl tummy's full digital clocks strike a just-after-3 pose Mike missed his train again thankful i'm not there thankful for loitering poised for a grand old time in a grand new century Rhi sitting across from me soaking up the words we take turns watching the stuff while the other smokes or hits the restroom the password is 0123 I was only off by 1 number... security is seriously lax in this Panera... they'll bring you butter and a knife if you haffta ask for it... Rhianna's up again tea runs right through her she's always running on empty no one seems to mind us occupying the booth... it's been 3 hours and I reckon we've walked a block meaning yes we are a block from Back There which we are not returning to we shut the windows & cranked the heat & barred our rooms from the living... happy thanksgiving pilgrims and pigeons you've got a knack for bread bread bowl blood bowl bread in your bowels blood on your towels the bread will rise the heat is awful the bread will rise... are you sure about it all do we need a loan for the turkey does this stuffing collect interest and are you sure are you really sure you're still interested in finding out whether or not you really are the one chosen to bring the banana jello.... it's an unalterable recipe... grandma made it orange with whipped cream are you the one who received the mandate to change my family? get outta here... the bread will rise... Rhi's gone to smoke but she's saved her blonde hair and doll's stare for me... you wish you got this lucky... don't forget the turkey leave a stamp of Santa on your window to pass the time... pass the peas... butter my bread, the bread that rises... the bread that rises with the dead sun also... my turn to smoke

Askov, Finlayson & The Mines of Mora

I've been told:
that if you leave your keys at the bottom
of Lake Superior you'll get them again
the next time you swing around that hill
and your ears'll pop like a plummeting
stock. Being a northerner is like going
to bed with ice. You've just gotta wait
for the great thaw. Once you get used
to the gusts, or the construction, or the
calm, unobstructed views, you've still
got the good folk to get used to.
The ones who welcome fisherman
with gamy slabs of shit on bread
and a greasy handful of chips.
Ones who never thought after their
visits to the dentist
that it would end up like this.

The ones who are getting old,
and don't seem to get
our obsession with going North.
Why we peel back the highway
and are pulled the strongest way:
to the North lay the silence,
to the North rest the memorials
that memorialize nothing.
Where the mines dwell deep
within the woods,
and the roads hug the steep,
staggered curve of the
hilly neighborhood.

The night is cold,
and the lights in the lake
form a column in the sky,
like seven ivory discs
aligning for the big omen.
The barge is drifting
and tugging its lights
through the curtain of
the dark, long lake.
I've been told:
that with a black cup of coffee
you'll always make it home.
Past Askov, Finlayson,
stopping at Mora's mines,
which echoed a familiar fear
that we had traveled North
for the last time.