The Star-Tribune--a newspaper that is nothing if not eternally whining--is commemorating the 5th anniversary of the 35W bridge collapse with. . . poetry.
I know, I know. You just rolled your eyes so hard you caught a glimpse of your brain. So did I.
St. Paul poet Todd Boss crossed the Interstate 35W bridge without a thought 20 minutes before it collapsed on Aug. 1, 2007. He’s been thinking about it ever since.
Such is the life of a poet that he can spend the last five years pondering his successful traverse over a bridge. He probably received a five year grant so he could adequately concentrate on his fortunate ability to survive his locomotion from Point A to Point B.
Here at my ThunderJournal, I prefer to mock pretentious, self-important poets, so let's begin:
1.
The
sewage
enters
the
treatment
plant
and
the
plant
treats
the
sewage
etcetera
like
the
stool
of
gods…
every
corn
kernel
the
same
sewage
coming
round…
everyday
someone
sniffing
into
time
whispering
mistakenly:
stinks
here…
stinks
wow…
2.
My
cousin
called
from
across
town
the
hour
the
bridge
went
down.
Are
you
okay?
Fine,
fine,
I
said.
Good-bye,
Good-bye.
The
call
went
dead.
But
I
love
my
cousin.
So
I
held
the
line.
Man,
my
phone
bill
was
HUGE
that
month.
3.
Minnesota’s
fifth
busiest,
freighting
140,000
vehicles
daily,
“Bridge
9340”
carried
eight
lanes
of
Interstate
Highway
35W
.3
miles
along
14
spans
115
feet
above
Mississippi
River
Mile
853
till
it
fell,
injuring
145,
killing
thirteen.
This
is
how
you
turn
a
newspaper
lead
paragraph
into
a
"poem."
4.
O
set
a
man
to
watch
all
night,
watch
all
night,
watch
all
night.
Set
a
man
to
watch
all
night,
my
fair
lady.
And
if
the
man
should
fall
asleep,
fall
asleep,
fall
asleep…?
Shake
the
lazy
fucker.
4.
Twenty
minutes
was
the
spell
between
my
crossing
and
when
it
fell.
Twenty
minutes
ordering
files.
Twenty
minutes
buying
meat.
Twenty
choices,
street
to
street.
To
beat
survival’s
twenty
questions
“twenty
minutes”
doesn’t
answer
well.
So
don't
talk
to
clocks
is
what
I'm
basically
saying.
Stumble It!
