Words and more words

Joe Bozic lives in Minneapolis.
He is an improv and sketch comedian.
These are some poems.


The radio turns to static
the static turns to silence.
If they made this tunnel
a little bit longer
or we drove
a little bit slower
we would find nirvana.

9/13 - The Suggestion of a Non-Geographic Location

could have guessed
that an old auto repair shop
could be so funny.

But we stripped out the engines,
put in some pens
and a sense of unrequited pride
(with a mimeograph for good measure)
and let the beautiful monsters take center stage
so we could all see
what beautiful monsters we were.


It had to be here
where, from the clouded heavens above,
a hand came down
during the lunch hour
and placed a “vacancy” sign
in the window.

It had to be here
where the panes of glass
were large enough
for even the amateur brick-throwers
to find success
in expressing their opinions.

It had to be here
where doors would open
when they shouldn’t
and wouldn’t
when they should
and even the faulty carpentry
could elicit a laugh.

It had to be here
where the roof let the rain in
on only the sunniest of days.


The building doubled
as a wildlife habitat,
with mid-show appearances
of a mad, confused bat,
high-noon show-downs
between squirrel and man,
the occasional appearance
of a grotesque pelican.


we’ll hand our keys off
to a set of folks
that may not know of
the blood
the tears
the confetti
hidden under the paint
but who will walk through the door
and think “It has to be here.”


Down on the first floor
where the carpet and tile have been torn up
between the shoe stores
and the jewelry stores
and the coffee shops
(where they’ll write your name on the cup
but they’ll never spell it the way that you like)
there’s a stand
in the middle of the hall
there’s a stand
that simply states
that with a smile
and a signature
even you could get whisked away
from this temporal life
of being another faceless mass
amidst the mall masses
and become a permanent placard,
a portrait behind the products
placed perfectly
in the windows
of the shoe stores
and jewelry stores
and coffee shops
that line this torn-up hall
in this mid-afternoon mall.


We saved our youth
in rock and roll songs

we kept our childhood
in warped cassettes
and the sounds between
the static
and the radio DJs

and when an
old familiar song
comes on
we look around
to find the others
looking around
to know that the hook
hooked us all.


They announced
(in every way they could)
that the northern lights
- the Aurora Borealis
if you’re in need of
technical language -
would be visible
that the sun
had worked extra hard
put in extra hours
and made a few large explosions
that would be reflected
in magnetic waves
of beauty

but the city lights
that I have made
are getting in the way.


the coffee was made
while you were asleep

(water measured out
and grounds placed
in a paper bowl 
spoonful by steady
as to not stir you)

should we ever
in a single cup
coffee maker,
one that takes only one second
of the last minute
before you must 
be off
to get the day started

I won’t know what to do
while you sleep
as my day has been measured out
minute by steady 
for too long.


Nobody could have known
by the way you asked
the violins to swoon
that you would end up
traipsing through Paris
in dingy delicate paper shoes.
Did you hide your madness
among the French horns
until you ran out of notes
or did the silence
of rests
hack away at your sanity
beat by beat?


On a street
named after a
nearby city
in the middle of a street
stuck between two green lights
straddling two yellow lines
 ”cold beer”
blink suggestively
at each other
over passing cars
a bus stops
at an empty bus stop
and nobody gets off
but the doors still open


Dangle your feet
off the edge the highway.
behind your back
the cars
break silence
and space
and below
the creek
drowns itself.
There was a time
nobody was in a rush
to work
to home
to Iowa
and this highway
wasn’t here
to dangle feet
and neighbors waded
across the water
and wondered where
the birds were headed
at this time of day.


on a Sunday night
when the airplanes
are bringing people home
because vacations never start
on a Sunday night
when alarm clocks
get switched on
and double-checked
for the anxiety
of tomorrow
that only lives
on a Sunday night
when we silently mourn
the passing of a day
long into the darkness
of a Sunday night.