Archive for ‘Prose’

January 29, 2016

ASU

my penis
creates
a stream
between
me and the
toilet
seat.

i day
dream
about
sleeping
while
awake.

american
animal
wants to
destroy
anything
and
everything.

speaking
to
starving
artists
is the
sacrificial
lamb.

and the
poor
have to
pay their
bills,
always.

and
various
shades
don’t
matter
at tax
time.

and it
came
and went
like
bad trends,
good
intentions,
useless
politics,
and
Friday
beer.

and the
title
spelled
backwards
is where
i live.

and the
title
spelled
backwards
is
here.

January 25, 2016

tragic animals (true art)

the imperfections
make the
human being,

by nature we
are flawed;

so, love me
for all
my stupidity
and challenges,

as we are
animals of
a similar kind.

***

the 35W bridge
fell on a
swift August day
during
rush hour traffic,

in its
modern marvel,
in a humid haze.

the stone arch
bridge stands
square beige still,

just so, guiding
past and present
to the
city center scene.

January 18, 2016

completely taken

i take a breath
i drive to work
i rub my feet
i watch the sun
i drink a coffee
i drink a beer
i am in the woods
i am in the city
i have a life
i have a death
i press repeat
i tune a dial
moments between
moments between
i steal a look
i just can’t see
i take for you
i take for me,
& another breath.
& then i am had,
no time to fret
completely taken.

December 24, 2015

the cat and knowing pt 1.

Watching a backyard view;
there she wants to go.

Seeing this sight unfamiliar,
there she wants to live.

December 20, 2015

new sunday (amassing life)

the objective thermostat here
is hard butter on a dirty
busy kitchen countertop.
other contraptions don’t work.
i am front page, B & C,
and Columbia Heights business.
they want coffee shops for
auto care, they want a place
to find what they need.
they, they, they, but who?
this is sunday with my nose
in a creased Star Tribune.
i am at home with Jazz 88(.5),
with the smell of burnt sourdough.
that which surrounds creates.
sounding the packaging from
yesterday’s christmas market parade;
that was money well spent.
coffee travels with it in aromas and
heat to our morning stomachs.
empty then, now made stuffed full.
just two grown up children
at a register, talking about getting
quarters for laundry, where baristas
broke food & beverage codes,
and what goes on later that day was told.
i don’t want to get sick, i just want.
i love the short weekends for
what they are, for what our
society allots a persona like me. i can
afford this for just five days of paid toil
out of the lengthy work week, and
i think, it might be worth the wait.
new sunday measuring the warmth,
running in the cold; we are finding two
for five for a 40 hour amassing life.
and that is how exactly i am i.

December 16, 2015

doing to one an-other

individuals in groups
treating
individuals like
groups.

December 14, 2015

Seeing the End

I’ve seen doors locked for all time,
purpose in moments changed,
and boxes closed indefinitely

with familiar occupants inside.
Yet, still I lift my head in ice pellets
coming down on the campus mall,

and still my view is fixed straight-
forward when allowed, and with
this aside, and taking on alternatives.

I exist in a one bedroom apartment
in Southeast, brushing teeth, put-
ting my eyeballs in to see just this.

December 10, 2015

what i found in my food

Here was auburn hair that crawled like
Butter on a resting worn spatula –
From eggs – from earlier,
Running down its seemingly sublet slant

(Along the sink,
At countertop’s edge),

As the sweatshirt on her back
—at dusk, sun crimson red,
With an alabaster background
Lit up like a table lamp.

The silhouette across
The room too;
It moves
With you and the view.

Human matter and digesting food,
Set forth to
Consume, and assume.

What’s the difference? Though…
Part until moved.
Part in truth.
Stomach full,
Now whole—lest these fibers are removed.

November 16, 2015

This is how it is…

when verbose people
hiding behind screens
say this
is how it is,
lightening
and thunder
beyond the windows
speak more
wisdom in meaning.

when a gut reaction
is examined
as hard “fact” meaning,
our degrees
and letters
and intuitions have
been burnt to ash.

stream of conscious thought
is the next
judge waiting patient,
wanting for
one more line,
one more guess,
for one more anything
contemporary to tell it
how it is–
besides them.

some existence merely
depends on
the expressions of
others, and
how there is no
fact in feeling,
no definitions exact,
only words and thought
to a person,
telling this is right
and this is wrong,
like they fucking “know”
the difference anyway.

November 14, 2015

Three Colors with One (of Paris)

There is solidarity abroad
while a nation is divided.
There is difference assigned,
as senseless tragedies occur.

There are three colors shown
with pictures of broken glass.
There are groups crossing lines
with lists & scores outdated.

There is talk of how and why
and who and what, unknown.
There is confusion on screens
and some parts of the whole.

And we really wonder about us.
And we really wonder who that is.

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