Archive for October, 2012

October 31, 2012

Wake Up Downtown

Waking up to a situation with you.

 

Blond hair and ruffled blankets; sitting up naked.

Nothing new, same deal, same issues.

Remaining relatively true.

 

Things aren’t as bad as they seem.

This is true, true.

I don’t know about you.

 

Socks, shoes, contacts stick to blue eyes like glue.

Hello to the mirror on the wall, trying to see things clear.

Asking who is the fairest of them all?

 

I see me.

 

Counting, looking around to see this fantasy bathroom stall.

Then I leave, then I disappear with much sound.

 

Sun light, so bright.

 

Getting up, not my bed.

Just another night.

 

Getting up, she turns her head.

She says.

Wish we could be here all day.

 

I say,

I say.

 

Right.

 

Yeah, only in dreams.

Right.

 

Then I found myself on my way.

I found what the weather patterns mean.

 

On my bike, looking left, looking right.

Cars, gas, fumes, liability, citations, cash, and frustration.

What a sad sight.

 

Drivers waiting patient, like a logical fallacy.

 

To 3rd, to Central, to parking lot and sidewalk, to Nicollet, these are places where I will never get lost.  Downtown habit is a chronic pathway to the day, individuals traveling in every which way.  From the Stonearch Bridge to the Grain Belt sign Minneapolis is on the mind.  The weather is chilled, same as the attitudes.  People standing in line to have a good time, most never move on.  Who is wasting time?

I coast and back pedal only in travel…

 

Getting up, haven’t slept like this since birth, since last month.

Getting up and outside to see what its worth, to open my eyes.

Gift or curse I’ll figure it when it arrives.

 

I thought this as I waved goodbye.

October 26, 2012

J.D. St. Anthony

You don’t have to explain.

 

I can go so far with you (like this).

 

Until the wheels fall off, until the last drop.

Can’t sleep sense off.

 

Conversation of the deepest.

 

Last straw-draw a light for the night.

You exist in heaven, but what a beautiful hell.

All the world is well.

 

Under a spell,

Under your spell.

 

Exploring potion and tonic to escape logic.

 

Weak as all from your smell,

so many to tell.

So many to tell.

 

And a taste…

 

There is so much to tell.

 

***

 

I light another cigarette as you remain healthy.

Help me.

 

(And she left.)

October 22, 2012

Thoughtful Drones

I love you more than I trust Western Medicine:

Lay in the waste.

Take note of the wreckage…

Relate to what you’ve witnessed with minimal discretion.

 

I hate the job that makes one question fate:

Advised to resign or die, or ride on the side just to get by.

We all get along, and then we are all gone.

 

I like the way things sound when the meaning is found:

Back, bi-language, tri-language, trite paralinguistic remarks; physically aimless, tainted, fit and smart.

Ageless claiming to be famous, rolling their eyes.

 

Tell them to fuck off.

 

I dislike the feeling of ummmm, ahhhh, things change…

Better known as my better half-there’s like 50, and 50 more wishing, so I will speak on their behalf.

Get a raft and 2 paddles, only joking…

 

Hit the gravel, I’ve been stolen

And broke,

and sold to someone across the ocean.

 

Care to follow?

 

I am indifferent to the rubble that builds up in the back.

Trash-talk bins full, you can see them through the window.

Its the truth, its fact.

 

I would stop and look to find the bottom of the bottle, but there is too much shit to get into,

-so I just swallow, rules of the model.

 

I am different to the same.

We are all the same in the fact that we are different.

 

The light seems to be dim though;

The ideas seem to be diminished.

And then its finished.

 

There are no definitive features on the face of society, only a blur of melting pot steam.  

Seems we have all lost a lot, seems we are all bursting at the seams.  

 

I see it.

Agree?

 

 

October 19, 2012

No Destination. (Downtown Minneapolis)

Colorful soppy leaves under feet, what a rare occasion.

Orchards and stripped trees pray for precipitation.

 

While we bundle up to avoid a single drop.

Rain hits the roof:  Clip-Clop, Clip-Clop.

 

Drought conditions on the outside, but our minds are wet.

The clouds haven’t left Southside(!) yet.

Concerned meteorologists can rest, the day is set.

 

Fake passion, do we really care about our jobs anyway?

What do you do?

No, what do you do?

 

Not just for pay.

 

Everything is art.

 

Woken from rest by the pitter-patter and a cacophony of buzzing.

Have we heard this sound before?

Will we hear it evermore?

 

The world is drying, the world is dying.

The Midwest will be a Tropical Paradise some day.

 

Hardly a cold day in the city, hardly a month into autumn; vegetation obviates a blossom, as we gossip of the coming snow and frozen bones-we are set to dress in costume.

 

Of day, of before dawn, all dryness is gone.  Prepared, however, not.  Nothing lost.

Memories do no justice to Windchill.

 

Pavement shines, belts whine, as vehicles drive by.

 

Aggressive and agitated as the Metro Transit driver guy.

A honk from a passing friend, watch for pedestrians as you flood the skies again.

 

They are shit for shambles as they amble through the day.

Make way.

Make way, and take a gamble.

 

Traveling north by cracked roads, noticing small things; a black hat left by the wayside, debris, a soiled glove, trash, broken glass, and traffic lights flashing, dancing on glass.  Slipping past.  The minutes tick, an attempt to be on time.  Time passed.

No morning transaction is complete without me on my feet.  No one drinks if I miss the mark, few will get their fill of the bakeries heart.  The pay doesn’t matter, it’s the experience before, the journey to work, that makes it worthwhile.    

I wish people could see the streets like they are downtown in the early morning twilight.  The few, the proud, the individuals that get an unadulterated presence of Downtown pavement.  The idea that in a moments notice there will be too many ships afloat on this ocean to see.  An impossible feat, but here it is.  I wake early by occupation, by habit, by passion, for a payment, a paycheck, yet my payment is allotted before I get to the office.  Things to take in, things to think about.  Accomplished.  

Take to feet, take to bike, take flight.  Take to the night.  Live in another time, other than as you would have imagined in your life.  Maybe things have been misunderstood.  Maybe a night owl can be a day laborer, maybe the early bird can sleep late and still keep a worm on it’s plate.  On a date, on a ladder, and climbing faster while avoiding disaster.  The journey.

 

There is a world out there, on the opposite side of your schedule.  A world you can find, if you only keep difference in mind.

With or without you, this orb spins.

Getting out and about, out of the house, to take it all in.

 

I am one of the many who traverse Nicollet Mall daily.

 

***

 

And they still talk about building a Pipeline over an Aquifer.  WTF?  I thought they wanted to conserve.

Try water.

October 18, 2012

An Artist’s Malaise

The other Morning in South Minneapolis, Whittier,

 

Shoelace belt, Minneapolis shirt, still spending time up some girlfriend’s skirt.

Work’s work, to pay rent; slow money, having patience to get a paycheck.

And then I bike home…

 

***

Everyone is an artist regardless.

If they’re famous or paid, that’s dependent on the market.

 

An Artist’s Malaise.

 

Marked margins.

Guided goals.

 

On your own-alone.

 

Other days, we sit in bed.

We sit all day.

We sit with our best friends while playing games.

 

That’s love, that’s what remains…

 

Food, water, clean clothes, and an hour long shower, I am restarted back to full power for about four hours.

Then some slumber.

 

Appliances seeking placement, people looking for a fix.

Witness get this: I resist, I resist.

Or open wrists.

 

Articles sit in the basement with dust, centipedes, and roaches.

Modern Dungeon, with real-life poses.

Leaves me needing lotions and potions.

 

Water through osmosis, smell the fucking roses.

Waking up.

 

Stretch, yawn, gone.

 

Then I sit back…

 

 

 

October 17, 2012

Bob’s Java Hut (Coffee and a Draft)

10/11/12

 

Coffee shop of warmth; roasted beans to heated water to stomach deep warms me farther.

Wooden floors hold an open table where I can rest my feet, an open window view for my eyes to see, next to you, next to something new.

 

(Looking around to see a million other writers)

No one is there-thin air.

Hard to compare while I stare, hard to care.

 

White cup, stained with dark liquid on top.

Not a single drop to be dropped.

Every penny worth of pleasure will be drunk at my leisure.

 

Papers spread out in front, no lunch, just thought and the daily headlines.

 

*(The epicenter of art, comes from the heart.)

 

I could catch a tan from the bright October sun, weather permitting.

 

Sitting acting ambitious-as caffeine takes hold, as we fit this mold.

Modeled and sold, an endless digging of gold.

Taking the long road in the cold, the stories to be told.

 

Making an old soul out of control, ready to stroll.

 

Out of this place.

Out through the door.

 

Then we leave…

 

Mundane holding positive, wake, and leave.

 

I believe.

 

This all came from a fair trade bean.

October 12, 2012

AM Minneapolis (Before Five in the Morning)

Shaken from slumber by the semblance of an early morning dance.

The darkside of a lunar wane exposed; the heavens stretch forever as our necks bend to accommodate our vantage.

 

Scratched backs, cars drive by as I imagine their muffled sound in the future snows.

They remind me of thoughts from the past.

 

Black but blue, the shades of everything at this time seem new.

Coffee is a distant thought, breakfast is truly morning food at this time, moments are lost.

It is before 5 am and I do rule this city.

Boss.

 

All is fleeting faster in the vast darkness.

I ride down Franklin thoughts of yelling Powerderhorn, or Southside!

 

She says I need brighter bike lights, she doesn’t mention my intellect.

Off to support, the girls, the ladies, the babies.

 

We don’t know, she can’t go.

She did.

 

Met yesterday and spent the night in it.

Met yesterday near Chicago as she exited the bus.

 

Looked for a blond, but I found a brunette.

Surprise-surprise.

 

Minnesota desolate, again, the end of summer hinting of fall and enlightenment.

Leaves stripped from trees to come, forgetting of the heat, lying in the slum.

Pulling the AC out as if removing a splinter.

Ready for winter.

 

From before, I stand in front of her door on the sidewalk as she rides away.

Days are number, I guess that is true for all of us.

 

Getting along like no other, forgetting reality as lovers.

Good food and good preparation, the beauty of aggression transpired temptation…

No agitation.

 

Few on bike, some with heads down, a couple of nods.

Most are nodded off.

 

People walking, small talk, sharing little light and little thought.

The cool breeze reminds me of my thoughtfulness as I pull out a coat.

 

Certainly we must think ahead.

Or think again.

Or we just don’t.

 

He and she look for release, coming back from vacation I sit down and listen with patience.

I realize everything I need is here, I suppose that is anywhere and everywhere I go.

 

She says I am so one sided, I tell her I just don’t see it that way.

 

My thoughts run, a week ago my thoughts menaced my days.

No more tears, just happiness for what is near.

 

She left and came back, like the bird with the olive branch, like that story about a dove.

Life happens, but when it happens think less hate and more love.

 

This summer is naught only for loss, like live and let go.

I built a fire on the beach, I came to drunk on your porch while you kissed me.

However, you know.

 

Those  stars we saw earlier  that day next to the moon were Jupiter and Venus.

 

Momma’s got the squeeze-box and Daddy never sleeps at night.

You had me singing Here Comes the Sun before day break.

 

You were my guide, leading me to the bus with frosted windows on the journey home.

You sat in the grass smoking cigarettes in the sun, while milling over my finances and telling me everything would be okay.

 

Daily thoughts are of you.

That is how I make my way.

October 5, 2012

Love Poetry (Weather)

Poetry and I:

Like Jane to Calamity.

Like the Hindenburg to Fire.

Like Rim to Tire.

 

We transpire.

 

(And proceed.)

 

We tire.

 

We exist,

we live,

and we are:

 

Like a fast car, like a boxer’s spar.

 

Immensely interesting.

 

Poetry.

Poe, try (ed).

Poe did and Poe died

-drunk along the riverside under dark skies.

 

But he got by (with it).

 

(That’s how we think of the past, in black and white.  Romantic delight.)

 

Yet we read on.

 

We choose battles.

We choose retreats.

Sometimes while talking in our sleep.

 

We like it.

We write it.

Sometimes its divided.

 

The words still exist (with us).

In the mix, tossed up to become lost stuff…  Then found.

That’s when poetry comes back around.

 

The wind blows the leaves every-which-way, the path forward and backward become obstructed and cleared in an instant.  The air around has a chill that has been in other lands for many months, touching other faces, other families, with other ideas.  Relation is in the season-we feel this way for a reason.  Universal community.  

October 1, 2012

A Modern Fix (Anti-depressants)

Going to the Asian store to buy Mexican food.

Bled through so much I had to change the sheets to hide clues.

 

That’s honest.

A Daily allotment of rotten.

 

***

 

Smashing magnets outside to build a positive connection.

Fragments stuck to the hammer’s metal.

 

Yelling at the television inside due to lack of attention.

Another form of socially unsettled.

 

Real Sunday and Monday.

Real Blurred together.

 

Sore voice prevention, too late for reception.

 

Book 101, open to see words, to take a look.

Lying in bed, I hear birds.

Lying in bed alone, I feel discouraged.

 

Searching the tiny details-reading precisely; slowly like a snail to prevail over fail nightly…

 

Leaves left to the street make me ponder.

Line, sinker, and hook.

 

Why bother?

 

Floating away on the wind again, my mind wonders.

Turning to dirt and fodder.

 

(On Anti-depressants)

 

Who tells you about your problems?

And who sells the pills that solve them?

 

Is it the same person?

Is it urgent?

 

Be the judge.

 

We learn, then moments later amnesia.  Diseased, these are just answers to please.

Prescription rather than Environmental Therapy.

All that stuff really isn’t scaring me.

 

Apparently, all problems are clear to see.

 

Bio-feed like biology:

I fix me.  You fix you too.

True.  True.

Who knew?

I guess we all just grew.

 

Now, turn off the news and strap on some shoes, you psycho.

:)

 

 

 

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