Archive for November, 2013

November 30, 2013

Travelers of the Hometown

With a moderate hangover we wake to unfiltered light.

A sign of the debauchery transpired last night.

 

Weather view tempts those to wander outside.

If they take time and mind to leave confines.

 

Travel,

Family,

And the Local Paper -

 

We barter borrowing the car to visit familiar strangers.

 

Beer,

Coffee,

Bowling,

And a Walk in the Books-

 

Finding matters of interest-vague yet specific,

Travelers of the Hometown, try? …

 

We didn’t even have to look.

November 27, 2013

Local Underground Writers and Publishers Challenge

Underground publishers should publish people who aren’t their best friends more often.

 

Local Lit becomes incestuous static shit.

I’m bored to fits when I realize this.

 

So much same it makes me sick.

Waste of trees; what’s in print?

 

Questions which reign legit when I pick up that paper.

Say something real, different, true, to challenge the wit with what’s writ, stranger.

 

Can we get a new point of view?

 

Stop words that just fit.

Surely fitting the appearance-redundantly, the image and lifestyle of a wordsmith.

 

Break outside the confines of critically acclaimed lines, lest stay to remain has-beens, same-same exist.

 

Because with stale and dated you won’t move thoughts with any great number of pages, tire to frustration.

 

But I suppose this won’t happen ever because what’s described is too easy.

Local Underground Scribes: Satisfied and sleazy.

I use the word “writer” loosely and freely, but never LITERALLY.

 

Wise up, we read the compromise between forced-publish and real tries.

I don’t promote my best friends work, I promote my best work-Mine.

 

Call it how I see it.

You can call me a jerk.

I count the times.

 

But what’s in words?
And who is to judge?

 

The only thing changing in Minneapolis, in relation to progressive artistry, is the number of words which lack meaning, and the amount of people who will introduce themselves as writers.

There is no deficit, we pile shit on shit.

November 25, 2013

Failed Writers, and Every Artist That Ever Told Someone They Were (I Love Your Hate)

Do you hate what you do?

 

You’re being paid to forget your passion.

Complain about things which actually happen.

 

Content,

Not moving forward,

Just sitting,

Talking,

And talking…

 

This remains your common reaction.

 

Affixed rock as flowing water moves around you.

Abandon choice to choose, afraid to lose, change astounds you too.

 

Roll on sitting duck.

Others could give a fuck.

 

***

I Love Your Hate,

 

There to motivate.

 

It feels good to surpass those who told me I wouldn’t amount to shit.

I’ll not list them by name, but they know who they are.

 

Keep being yourself, don’t move.

A mindset like that will get you so far.

November 22, 2013

In So Many Words…

The shorter the writing project the harder it becomes.  I have this problem where I write a million or so words and still say nothing at all.  I can’t speak of a single entity within a plethora of black and white lines and dots.  Copious language utilized to convey squat.

The sentences are great, the structure is fine, but the content is shit.

I guess it’s the best written material ever.  I truly enjoy the act of writing, so it has to be, right?

Typing, fingers on the keys, creating something visually appealing on the desktop screen in front of me.  Almost no errors, and it flows, but it says nothing about anything; who I am, or where I live, nothing of relevance or significance-really.  I guess it says I have issues.

This might not be a problem but a successful catalyst for confusion and boredom. An escapist’s venting of real world fixations, deadlines, and the harsh realities one is not quite ready to confront, let alone accept, maybe…

And then I think…

Why change that which is so innately us?  I guess why change the government?  Why change the status quo?  Why change the us we know?

The title of this piece is “Art”.

Why change that too?

November 20, 2013

Fleshed Out Sun

Fleshed Out Sun,

 

Eyes that can find an enemy in anyone.

Lost: kind of like need a star to find a son.

 

Can I wake to crusty eyes, love despised, true lies?

Realize the real guys look not for the prize.

 

More words, commas, and jeering cheers,

And surely meters that really matter here.

 

You give us periods like a bitch so serious,

But near to us, you appear delirious.

 

Stop, halt, wounds filled with salt,

Nothing is your fault-I doubt.

 

I doubt.

 

Your make up is made up of a simple shroud-with you, without.

No wherewithal, gone for five, no one knows you were alive and about…

 

Or maybe even clever…

Ever.

 

November 19, 2013

Weekends in Bush Valley

Always flannel, mouthing big cigars, and coffee,

In the cold, smoke would rise from a few.

 

Sawdust and dirty dogs,

Not insulting, just talking, they were barking,

There was cussing at ideas, and the sky blue.

 

No need to ask why, things just happened.

 

An old Ford pickup,

We were loading the flatbed back.

 

Playing in dirt, waiting on something, or someone to make tracks-

What had occurred?

Occupied with running around, yet relaxed.

 

-Shooting a rusted BB gun at beer cans and stray cats.

(AND I ACTUALLY DID SHOOT MY EYE OUT.)

 

Hoses and a wood splitter,

An old horse named Drifter.

Hydraulics and the sounding of the oak wood’s crack-working toward a heart-attack.

 

Donuts and words,

We conquered a bit of the forest and this part of rich black earth; a necessity of warmth, and a peace that calms the nerves.

 

No cell.

No net.

No Beatnick hipster belief for the minimally absurd, chasing fame, and admiration of friends.

Just content with technology and life as of just yet,

 

And a few words we had learned:

Play,

Love,

And Respect.

 

In nature we couldn’t forget,

The smell brings back memories directly to the present tense.

 

Landlines and old relatives,

Hardened and happy, they prospered simple, and simply prospered.

Good life they lived.

 

Weekends in the valley as a child,

We were never so satisfied to work so hard.

Small towns remain so rich.

 

Of me it is much more than a part.

November 14, 2013

Naked Bits

So many adjectives I get lost in the sentence.

Be plain, John.

Please.

 

Be straight up.

 

Or we have forgotten the original intention.

November 12, 2013

Sorority Girl Trash

Follow splashing trash goop.

This proves a stinky stench remembrance upscale neighborhood.

 

Sorority Row-near Como.

 

A black liquid slimed along the pavement.

 

Aroma to high heaven alerts my senses,

External cost of who shall remain unmentioned, nameless.

 

Closed windows, narrowly drawn minds;

Bright skimpy clothes hang along a limp clothes line.

 

But, hey, this is outside.

 

Looking towards that glowing orb in the skies-

As I ride by.

 

In all that haze…

 

All these thoughts, yet there is only one thing holds my mind-

I can’t be late this time.

 

Consumption is a problem in so many ways…

November 11, 2013

Free Money

As if others don’t know it,

As if labels couldn’t show it.

A lot of them talk what they want.

Mostly their walk is below their thoughts.    

 

More importantly (near Starbucks at Lind Hall):

 

I found two pennies on the ground this morning,

I bent down.

 

Not too demanding of a task,

Yet it was:

Change of mind.

Exchange, interact, a reaction of mine.

Someone had left this in my path as I passed.

 

Pay penance for epiphany.

Couldn’t care of the cash, as if it were a hundred dollar bill in the trash -

Composure relaxed.

 

I guess we try to save.

 

Avoiding slippery slopes,

Remembering my lines,

Laugh like joke.

Choke like smoke.

 

Here in due time.

Thoughts steadily moving towards hope.

Belief, what a crime!

 

And at this moment I glanced at my watch, just out getting coffee.

Ask me awfully- Why I look down…

You lost me.

 

Eyes move as I measure the cost.

 

I promise ADHD.

 

You never know what could be found.

Things what won’t happen again.

Until you next look at the ground.

November 8, 2013

South, Prairie du Chien, Steamboat Travel

South, Prairie du Chien, Mississippi River Valley

Terry Scott Niebeling

 

Wake up in Prairie du Chien, Nähe Le Villa Louis.

 

Lay cold to the touch, on a rolled up sleeping bag.

You are not within.

You are without.

 

So early you feel like askin’.

-Time is it?

5:30 AM.

 

Surrounded by what you need:  Water.

Drank so much it made you so thirsty.

 

Noise from the generator wakes you-

A voice, Dave, a question-

He, a tall blond first mate, imagine rugged, stands above.

 

We refuel.

 

River smell rich, insects, and spider’s webs remain about you.

You ponder, your eyes shift, how many did you swallow?

 

Sit perched below the bar rail, a kicking spot.

-A useless lot.

-Where you squat.

You sad sit this shit.

Might as well sit out.

Close to go, avoid the hitch.

You have all the wherewithal to slouch.

 

Sleep eating, drinking-peeing, while hardly sleeping through the night.

Mop in hand, Dave asks again, cleaning a mess.

 

I pissed the deck, didn’t I?

 

He says, “Get Up!”  You say you haven’t slept.

Mums the word, I am told.

 

Sore throat sun in your eyes- weak dried out post drunk haze in your mind.

 

The smell of gasoline-or oil, or whatever powers this big bright red paddle.

 

Feels like a stiff neck, stiff legs, and a stiff arm, feels like it just hit me, my alarm.

Feels like a stretch.

 

Over the next few moments everyone showed.

There was an hour’s ride home-no service, no phone.

 

Took in whitecaps and tree tops along the drive.

Times like these along the river so full of insight.

 

Thank you for the ride, it’s good to be back in La Crosse.

Now Goodbye.

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