Archive for February, 2013

February 28, 2013

NOW

I see you are clearly starting to plant your ubiquitous presence in my heavens.

 

Art and Stone alone block the outside view of Winter.  Wind blows on an old building.  Places we’ve been together: with you-us two.

 

My shirt says, Snow Shoe Brew, My feet are Boots.

 

We used to kick the ground around this town.

Used to live to love, looking above at the stars.

 

Nothing has changed.

Watching cars and buses from afar.

 

Forgetting the days, planning our ways.  In the future-wish again, what have we missed my friend?

Not much.  Not how.  We have Now.

 

Again, old fashioned statement of life’s placement.

I think as we walk, kiss, and say goodbye.

 

She goes away like she first said “Hi” and walked into my life.

February 25, 2013

Numb3rs and W0rk

If work isn’t for you, don’t work.

If work is for you, work hard.

 

Love:  the snow, the rain, the sleet, the sun, the pain.

 

Hate:  nothing.

 

There is no subtraction; only addition of negative numbers.

Divide them, multiply them by zero, and then move on.

 

You are your own personal hero.

February 24, 2013

It’s Only Working (No Breaks)

Adele does not understand sarcasm.  She came right out and told us.  We said Yeah Right!

Alex.  I guess.  Left early.  I guess.  He had permission.  I guess.  He left us.  I guess.  He is serving drinks at the 1029 again.  I guess.  Everyone was drunk at this time and it was annoying.  Again I guess.

Joe makes a joke about acne and priests cumming on 14 year old boys.  My face is be-speckled.  I tell him a prick joke involving a condom and a cockpit.  Joe is a dick.  I nicked that joke from Fight Club.  We speak in passing.  We were in the kitchen.  We were in the shit.

 

***

Sometime before he was at work.  Sometime when he was at home.

He goes to a house in La Crescent.  It is a nondescript winter night.  There are rows of houses around with no lights.  He is alone in the dark.  He is out of sight.

The sky is a deep blue-black from lack of light pollution and populous of stars and planets spinning in confusion.

A television is on.  The sound is muted.

Light flickers.  He is in a living room.  Years ago a woman succumb here quietly screaming.  She had brain cancer.  She had lamented in her shortened days.  He reminisced.

He remembered the future:

 

February 12, 2013

Coins In My Pocket

Snow on the ground mixed with ice seems nice.

There is less cold with precipitation; therefore, less frustration in sight.

 

In this weather I am just Minneapolis All Right.

 

Turning to the side to sneeze, in light of the sun.

Vitamin D locked and loaded, I welcome any errant rays, as it replenished my ways.

Staying focused.

 

Spun on my worn boots, laced to waterproof.

The temperature is heat aloof.

A mirage of warm light from sparkling snow is a natural spoof.

 

Walk past the traffic, pedestrians, bicyclists, and laborers at the intersection of Hennepin and 3rd; everyone going everywhere in Northeast Minneapolis, everyone busy assured.

 

Absorbing visual tags and stickers created by local geniuses.

I wonder if they know what kind of scene this is.

 

Walk on-unseen, unheard, existing in a world so absurd.

Through a parking ramp proper, through humanoid ant flow, in and out of Lund’s for sustenance I go.

 

Mink fur shine; a glare below, I am pondering present and past tense.

I keep my head up though.

Pondering rent, and how I used to get bent.

I keep above my lowest low.

My days were spent early and late, living with no time to relate.

 

Society as a whole:  Supermarketable.

Remarkable.

 

Ads on everything, subtracting from life.

Sobriety (in moderation) has made me more reckless and relevant to my delight.

 

More rational and less bashful, written material-there’s a trash can full, for the hell of it.

Can’t tell the shit from the wit.

 

The connoisseur can express.

 

An amazing minute downtown has revealed that capitalism is abound and surrounds.

It says, I don’t care about you personally, what are your finances?

 

My dad said you served the Yuppies, good thing you got out.

My mom said I love you, no matter what you do, with or without.

The CEO said, who are you, what can you give me, is that gluten free, is that organic juice?

I suppose it all is true, we do what have to do to get on and get through.

 

Now, inside:

A panacea of color robbed my eyes of their fixed flat accustoms; winter months had stripped the tangent brightness from daily life.

Except for the white.

Except for the bright.

Except for the night.

 

Hey, I’d rather be a starving artist.

Hey, the Pope quit too.

Hey, God, this must be a sign.

Hey, Terry, this was overdue.

 

I stuck my gloves in my pockets and heard a sound and felt what was arranged.

The coins in my pocket signify change.

I walked forward through the snow.

February 9, 2013

It Ain’t The Prettiest (Midwest In General)

A bunch of much of the same; Midwest-mold ubiquitous like the plague.

Break the routine like sinking into a grave.

 

I hear it on the radio, I see it in print.

 

Seen it, done it, heard it before.

I wonder, how long of a stint?

 

How much more, how much more?

 

Shit-sound galore.

Shit-material, what’s the score?

 

As if underground hip-hop is Amateur Hour Club at the dive, or just horribly inarticulate karaoke.

Something to be, don’t be.

Are you doing this jokingly?

 

Coffee from place to place.

The good stuff.

State your case, case your state.

 

Jumping on trend like an almost missed bus.

Jumping on love like lust.

Then bust.

 

As if Portland is Minneapolis.

Getting coal in exchange for your Christmas Wish List.

 

As if vise versa, or versa vice.

Who gives a shit, right?

 

As if La Crosse is cultured.

All progress has been haltered.

 

I’ll drink a beer on it.

 

The holidays are over, winter should be gone.

The year 2012 is over, you should be gone.

Why not go to the nearest local Coffee Shop and write an inspiring song?

 

Too much on my plate to save space, save time, save face.

 

Back to earth without a trace.

Cool beans, I love you too.

 

I am all right.

 

Passive aggressive, throwing it up like it’s the flu.

Done with the mundane typical spew.

 

Amy Winehouse is dead.

The Current is begging for money.

The government is still funny.

 

I’d rather talk same sex marriage and control of guns.

I’d rather talk homeless people on the streets and my lack of funds.

 

How about you?

 

Bowie came out and did it again.

Came out and did something boring, my friend.

 

Prince is talking about sex, breakfast, and an orange juice and vodka drink, and what do people think?

Such a genius, he is on the brink.

 

We came for the Atmosphere and left when we heard of The Chalice.

Breaking through the sacred palace of this fruitful scene, thinking:  I will literally burn this motherfucker down, I promise you, I mean this.  P.O.S. can throw as many

Molotov cocktails as possible, Tyler Durden is on my side.

 

Freddie Mercury called, he wants all of his ideas, sounds, moves, and lyrics back.

 

I have something to be excited about:  Something different, something advanced, something true.

 

You just got Ninja Mind Fucked.

February 8, 2013

This Guy (changed the world)

Oren Thomas Scott would succumb to a morphine drip surrounded by relatives in a hospice on July 24th, 2010.

At the hospital:

I lay sprawled in a chair at the corner of the room, an intern sat at a computer; blue and green light reflected off of his books, and off of tubes and wires connected to my grandfather, who lay breathing on the bed.  My sister lay sleeping on the foldout couch next to the chair I occupied.

We were all doing the same thing, in a sense; we were all dying together.

***

The day before:

The last words my grandfather uttered were, “I will give them hell!”

Now, years later, I remember this phrase.

I remember:

He protested “broads” (the female persuasion) were horrible at driving.  He smoked endless cigars, drank coffee all day long, and spoke cuss words more eloquently than the experienced priest spouts puritanical phrases.  He called me Scott.  He pissed in a pot, he worked in a garage, and he kept an amazing garden in his backyard.

He was big when I was little, as I grew his stature shrunk, and closer to the end of his life I was taller than he.  Craftily, he could put the words “God” and “Damn” into any conversation rather effortlessly.  He frequently said, “Son-of-a-Bitching” about anyone and anything that gave him resistance.

He was more motivated in the last years of his life than most people are in there 20’s and 30’s.  He was 90 years old when he was taken from this world.

He is missed, and this brought me to the realization that I learned something from my surroundings, from someone so close to me, from my grandfather proper.

If you want to give them something, give them something they can’t handle.  Give them hell…

***

I thought and related with empathy, this is how it went, and I thought others should know:

 

Just finished some art.

Standing on my porch with a torch, bringing the tip to my lips for a light.

To take it all in: beer in hand, smoking a Spirit, American flag flapping in the wind.

 

Gazing at infinite skies.

 

It’s 10 AM, my day begins, its time to win.

 

He hardly sat to relax, maybe after the day was out.

And then he got up and went back out.

 

Bucks in my back pocket, backpack full of clothes, strapped and ready to go.

Where I’ll end up, no one knows, a good way to be, I suppose.

 

Good to see you.

Good to be seen.

Life is a dream.

It is what it seems.

 

Poor penmanship:  computer scholar, scrolling down what I owe-more rows of who knows and exploited expose.

Some I’ve borrowed.

Some I’ve stole.

 

Can’t see the bars tonight, in order to carry on my day tomorrow.

Can’t spend a dollar, in order to save.

 

Work place slave, happiness comes in waves-busy all days to the grave.

I could change my point of view.

 

He drank mostly coffee.

He watched mostly boxing.

 

I heard stories of him driving home drunk and falling down the hill in the front yard.

He would never admit it in his embarrassment.

He worked hard.

 

Dad would mention it over and over again at the funeral.

I suppose it was some sort of analogy of how things just happen.

 

There is no need for admission, excuses, or recognition.

Yet, without him his garden does not flourish, and Grandma sits alone in the kitchen.

 

Nonstop days, nonstop ways:  no time for play, hardly.

And that role isn’t so bad.

 

***

Even when Grandpa wasn’t working he was working.

I’d like to live in his ways.

 

Some of them at least.

 

Learning from the things that surround you.

These words are just a point of view.

 

All stayed and none swayed.

Look at you, and your attitude.

February 6, 2013

Big-Small City Blues (Minneapolis Frigid)

You can find us foraging on the harshest of days.

To a Jet-Setter’s dismay, we amaze.

 

:  Daily occurrence

 

Layered like onion with attire and attitude.

Acting rude to those cordial tourists who seem to just pass through.

 

Seeking truth, priority of enormous proportions, propensity.

 

You can find us biking in any weather; seen worse, seen better.

Times like today, think about bringing an extra sweater.

 

(Some sit and lay.)

 

Maybe a shovel if your neighbor’s in trouble.

Finding a sidewalk with a walkable pathway, can be a puzzle.

Thinking outside of the bubble; we are not all shut-ins.

 

The hardiest travel gear gets soaking wet, dried, and molded.

The 18 will honk if you miss the starting gun on a green light, Metro Transit states symbolically: you’ve been scolded.

Such plight!

 

I remember a few months back, 120 degree heat index seemed funny.

Right?

I remember a few days back, negative 30 and sunny.

Right?

 

Seen sight; the visibility is impossible tonight.

I might be late.

You might feel the wind-chill’s bite.

 

I can’t see myself on my bike, can you?

Sit in and look at words again.

 

Refreshed by a novel movie and touching flesh, nostalgia we all forget.

Under all that puff.

 

Happenings; futures, pasts, present, time we’ve spent dwelling in resentment on the climate.

This doesn’t happen outside.

 

Look at the skies; there is always something to complain about.

 

Trapped inside; a cupboard small-life-style-apartment-renting-type-typical logic.

In the sun we used to frolic.

 

Snow builds up at the door, but when it snows the temperatures soar, or at least we think so.

A cool breeze pushes at the window.

 

Humming and buzzing of snowplows and traffic wake me from my slumber.

Trapped under multiple layers of blankets and a duvet cover.

 

In between Christmas and Valentine’s Day I am at a constant funeral:

The air is noticeably staler on the interior, seeing those more closely in tight quarters.  Emotions become more pronounced.  All judgement is irrelevant.  The reality of the situation becomes clear; one of us has to disappear in the whiteout, the others must stay.  Yet, eyes remain sunken as longer become the sun-rays.  

Counting days; contorted, frayed, frazzled, and astray.

 

We traverse the busiest roads; dangerous travel to make minimal loot.

Tie the boot.

Spoon the soup.

 

Look out on to the street-slop on your feet.

 

Something’s amiss, a chain slip, a tire flat, shoot!

Gloveless hands on handle bars, the thought seems aloof.

Vitamin C for juice.

 

Sit rigid in your chair-1,000 yard stare.

 

What’s in it, what’s given?

Proof that we enjoy the region.  Proof that we enjoy the seasons.

Gaining insight from book shelves; persistent, driven, emboldening self.

 

Commonplace; we all complain, but when we do naught but talk of change we remain the same.

The same.

The same.

 

Disgruntled and contented; seeming like an oxymoron.

Suggestions simply get a passive aggressive response, and move on, stay where you belong.

Or moan and move on.

Moan and move on.

 

No!

No, not me.

And no other soul in this big-small city.

 

We stay for another day, Minneapolis is full of play and easy ways, except for today…

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