March 27, 2015

Tomorrow Today

And sweet taste on the tongue
takes a person far; a lemon drop atomic bomb,
here and gone as Hiroshima.

Today is made up of
your wishes,
my tasks,
and some trivial thought
between purchases
and cognitive dissonance…

We love for the time, the moment to pass,
the time we sit and wait, we must hate.

Tomorrow didn’t come yesterday.

Never a gripe to regret,
never a sound to forget,
to the blind eye all gore is beauty,
to the deaf cacophony is glory.

Minutes make up days, as pennies do dollars.

Do you walk on by
or pick up and try?

Do you watch close the shtick,
or see the second-hand tick?

Prefixed we sit,
to sat at that,
a breakfast table slow,
and a radio loud,
a thought at mind:

no more cages.

Gone with smoke, I am last year’s joke,
last month’s hope,
and tomorrow’s unattainable dreams.

Now people eat trash,
like whose hands did grace it,
the name makes the food,
and the food tastes much better.

O’ Southeast in you do me;
my body feels the cold
while the waxy hung sun bites
my dry little face.

Laced up and tied down;
we brought the wine,
we brought the rye,
we brought the hateful words,
and the back-pats too—good friends,
how true.

Parts of me, are parts of we,
just in between;

while
on a walk an old car goes by,
it is another with another
life inside.

I wonder,
where do they go right now?

I am right here.

March 26, 2015

Procrastination and Lists of 612

Waiting the day
for something
to happen;

wasting the now
for the then.

Sharp alarms, busy commutes, weathered words,
between;

we are too—
local tasks, art, lists, work, and trends.

March 25, 2015

half made up

Half of my person,
my body,

my ghost, my own;

though you are outside in the
cold,

wind through bare trees blown—

near thoughts in the mind—full,
on edge a clear glass of water in

my saliva, in my throat,

as each word

from my mouth is spoke—

half of me yet all,
and gone, not long,

—as they go,

dissolve, a division in sight…

Happened, half-dead, I am froze;

all is night,

…and only half of something,

hair, eyes, flesh, hands, and plight.

The makeup of my life,

When I was younger sunlight seemed more bright.

Split now.

***

Wind chimes resound outside in the cold,
as you whisper this to my better half.

March 24, 2015

forgotten change

A monoculture of plants
in a field
offers a species fading—

a group of homogeneous acts
between skyscrapers
offers a…

well,

you get the point.

***

Now,

I must have stepped onto the bus
and forgotten my change.

Can I borrow from you?

March 23, 2015

we are the same

You, me; us we—forward or backward,
together we are the same.

Parts of a carnal body, whole—
built of dust, thoughts, and air;
no scar is without a measure,
no action still unmoved,
shell of human being outside,
ghost of us within.

We are compelling a kind,
eyes peer to see;
from Franklin and Nicollet to NE,
Middle America to Middle East.

Still, forward or backward, we are the same.

March 22, 2015

Perfect Artist

Sharing small town concepts,
language, in hopes to pave a path;

at a bar stool conversation,
after an empty whisky shot throat-sting,
as beer bubbles trace a 1/3 full pint glass.

One local could move forward with art,
or make it easy—take a step back.

Laugh , and seize the moment…
I think about it…
I say: but the proof is only if it kills you,
your art,
Bukowski said that,
I sort of believe the man.

We are not perfect artists, really—no one is,
the evidence is: we are still alive, mostly.

See: I’ve been to a few funerals;
I know the end of my story will be
surrounded by a shovel, dirt, words, and a box.

Then, a man I don’t know will tell others about me.

There’s advertising.

(The real artist is the priest who doesn’t know you acting like he does,
he swears to god. You were good, though god doesn’t understand death.)

Then, no more art will come out of you,
but they will hear it.

That is the perfect artist and art.
That is the truth, perhaps.

March 21, 2015

Out of Dodge, 52 South to La Crescent

There are pieces to account for
while getting out of Dodge,
on a Friday eve, away from the city—
on the mind of those,

sat in an aged black truck on edgy burnt-out energy;
a person can purchase a mass of pink-violet
spectacle taking over western skies,

glorious sunset in tired eyes,
painting cloaked-clouds,
heavy dark, invoking peering pupils.

That giant burning orb,
light-years away,
is sinking into a foreland field,

browned is a Minnesota plain’s silhouette to come,
spotted with tail-lights
and oncoming forgotten brights;

before cars snaked out of the city
on veined webs of pavement,
onto highway 35,

which roller-coastered up and down,
thru and around,

wheels traversed crude potholes
and bad drivers—ones inciting rage,
to 52 South, to less ego.

And in the cockpit:
a cracked window,
a rear-view gaze,
changing bootlegged CDs,
and easy conversation.

The journey goes:
follow the lines to-,
follow the lights to-,
follow the signs to-,

each less visible moment passing,
each shadowed monument dusted;
stop here, stop there, no stops at all…
Make time.
Make tracks.
Make it back.

under shrouded moon above,
each sparsely laden gas station,
each pre-ghost town affixed—

to Rochester, by Rushford,
past Winona and Houston,
fast 73mph, thru Nodine—

establishments wax a dimly lit yellow,
down a long hill stretch to 14 61,

along hulks of vibrant-by-day bluffs,
past looming Lock and Dam No 7,

along the sounding Mississippi,
waters show streetlamps caught in the flow, luminescent,

and we go into town,
La Crescent, past the Hub
to Apple Village Liquors,
then to home.

There,
a warm room,
my smiling family,
and hugs await.

Pieces of what’s become
getting out of Dodge.

***

A good aspect of the city
can be getting out of it.

March 20, 2015

Interactive Image (you and me)

Sometimes great minds think alike, think local,
some don’t think at all.

I have to put on deodorant today
in order to become an average human being.

All the while a naked spoon holds a naked cherry in the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden;
now that’s art, now that’s smart, now that’s in a park.

And then we have the Thought Police to condemn what,
to patrol what,
to portray what,
to convey what message?

IDK

How things have happened,
evolution is real.

No one single person is JC or PC or perfectly-,
we just are—you and me.

Categorizing and “knowing” is impossible without error.

See,
labeling those into groups would be easy,
yet we place with sedimented phrases, universal,
adding variance to that idea, disparaging,
then spreading like disease,
ones with history—you and me.

There is no describing,
living is art.

March 19, 2015

Human lives matter (Do only certain lives matter?)

“For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” -Audre Lorde

Human lives matter (Do only certain lives matter?)

When people around town or on social media express their thoughtful views I wonder,
do they think by using phrases such as:

black lives matter,
white lives matter,
native lives matter,
yellow lives matter,
gay lives matter,
purple lives matter,
red lives matter,
green lives matter, etc. etc.

(in no specific order, but always separate),

that they are not employing the same ideological tools
used to perpetuate segregation, generalization, hatred, and “-isms”?

Are we in 2015 separating groups with phrases?
Where is the community?

Don’t human lives matter?
What’s wrong with saying that?

March 18, 2015

Local Imaginaries

Observe the scattered common stones of these Twin Cities,
dusting sidewalks crumbled—ubiquitous,
taken in hand at foot, and thrown to,
from a bridge’s span above fast flowing currents of the Mississippi below.

Here flies to splash an artistry tangible,
before honest spoken words,
a sharp tone in tender ears,
which is contrast to what’s pictured:

Seen drawn lines,
Seen paintings bright,
Seen music made,
Seen night life.

Though observe them,
they are outside, heads aloft in thick-clouded dreams,
banded, mouths in perpetual motion,
hands seldom untied,
broken parts of stone—
proof over talking about the scene you’ve seen.

How those stones have accrued.

***

Some things get overlooked,
some things get stepped on;
other things get talked about profusely;
What of art does one hear?

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 909 other followers