Posts tagged ‘drinking’

April 22, 2015

the beauty of writing

To the Workshop Gods, to the Weekend Artists, to the Loud Talkers, to the Local Name Droppers, and to those who say they do important things for the art without taking action. Good Job. TS_

***

The beauty of writing
is sharing your words,
spreading your ideas,
whether it is
unique or not.

It is touching keys
with love,
fucking them,
forgetting the edit,
and doing what you want
just because.

Writing is either part of your life fully,
or great distances far away,
or in between;
it can come back at any moment,
and it can sit there and stay.

Writing is expressing yourself
not for those around you to critique,
it is for you,
it is with you,
it is by you,
in all the experience that you’ve seen.

Your everyday trivial
is more poignant than
yesterday’s raved about
new modern messiah.

Writing can be a target,
with a big bright red mark on your back to attack,
it can show humor
and sadness
and fun
and inspiration to act.

The beauty of writing
is it is actually you,
no matter how weird,
how rough,
how edited,
how wrong,
how the labels others choose to use,
or who it will prove to confuse.

Writing is religion, Allah, Christ, Academia, Professors, and God,
it is verses out of rhyme,
it is punctuation out of time,
and it is of topics trite,
and themes grotesquely odd.

The beauty of writing
can be called flawed by all,
but when it comes time to write,
to share,
to express,
to give,
the loudest have nothing at all.

March 29, 2015

Bike to Attain a Surly Pentagram at Zipp’s

At times we are a shameless weekend day-drunk,
on more mission than malicious,
while some factors remain
out of our hands.

It was…

In Dinkytown, a hundred dollars pocketed,
bike tires on fresh-thawed paths—
I moved with those in needed noontime sun,

where girls in flowery mini-skirts and low-cut t-shirts
families holding hands and smiling men—friends,
on a walk, on the go,

to Washington Ave, to West River Parkway, to bike paths,
more on the trek: sunglasses, glances, buses, and light-rails
those along the tracks.

Nothing stopped,
masses moving,
given this,
a Saturday to spend,
listless.

In the foreground beautiful dimensions;
a bridge expanse,
where tons of rock and rubble smashed,
stood in the sky above brown waters stirring,

above geese making wake,

with joggers, debris, bikers, and cars in the street,

this is where a person must stand the apex and view the cityscape ahead,
from South,
from Franklin Ave Bridge, it was.

Where Marathons had crossed,
where break-ups took place,
where others died on bikes by cars
in the twilight.

Memorials stood for them, fading,
locked to poles,
alabaster.

My mission: head to Zipp’s for that
Surly, Pentagram:
a $25 bottled designer beer.

I had to,
latent function ephemera.

A need,
like biking while cars pass,

here, remembering houses and nightly walks home alone,
or with new found strangers,
remembering people under streetlamps, red eyes glare,
empty cans and scattered trash about,
remembering.

An accident brought me back here for something,
Seward streets and an absence of time.

I thought of Tracy’s and Luce,
and cigarettes and movies,

of what I had not come to see,
but did…

I was careful with my backpack, another bottle couldn’t break.

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 13, 2015

Prelude to Spring Break 2015

As early March had come in biting and the best were kept inside,
a span of two weeks had passed slowly and sleep had become elusive.

Professors watched second hands tick and gave out faux tests;
these symbolic life quizzes—it’s who makes it who matters.

Desks became confines as concentration went out open windows,
to welcome hands of mild weathered-breeze and new-season sun.

People—tired students, red-eyed lecturers, they didn’t exist;
regular situations became stimuli for a stagnant comatose: why?

No answers formed, except that three days later a person could be a week away,
anywhere—abroad, nothing to do, only to read titles and books which please.

Yet we all sat watching that clock, it moved slower despite us;
now, it would have to stay indoors and assess classrooms of empty chairs.

Scholars and administration would hopefully be in Spring air, taking it in,
with a cold beer in hand and tender sunrays on their back;

minds would exist as empty—blank slates, to pen a tale—an experience,
with no thoughts of what was left sitting behind, with not a hint of rigor.

January 5, 2015

Drinking the Water

Just think,
We are made up of 60% water—

So, if we drink water,
From a different land,
From a different city,
From a different spring,
From a different past, present and future,

Do we become made up of something entirely different?

November 30, 2014

The Morning After (Downtown La Crosse)

The morning after,

Early new day;
“Bar hair” and Fishbowls,
Smell of smoke,
Sore throat-

Subtle suggestions: Let’s walk down by the river.
Last night’s concepts seem less conducive to life.

Now,
Light which sneaks
Through venetians blinds.

_even though they are closed.

Painful to eyes-
And then a piss.
Then a brush of teeth,
Under dry lips.

Moving,
Aching,
Wasting,
Stiff tender bits-

The evening before, knowing full well it would come to this.
Downtown: the nightlife, old friends, the drinks, to witness.

August 28, 2014

Local Public Radio

Frequency of seldom infrequency,
static-noised air to patient ear,
while colored with sun near a bus
or at the beach drinking beers.

Electric sounds come forth in waves
causation to rethink a certain thought,
eclectic colloquialisms, esoteric anecdotes;
meaning and purpose somewhat lost.

Effect and affect the way we make change,
asking questions: who, what, where, when, and why (?)
Coming from a time, this by-gone era,
not much action; save weather in the sky.

And yet always so much to say though,
because this is my local public radio.

August 26, 2014

Fishing near Lanesboro

Fishing near Lanesboro,

More beer than necessary,
one fish smoked, on a vast open field.

Spoken old-timers regale;
trials and tribulations in sar-ca-sm.

Late early last night,
Late morning faded blue-light.

fog that hung
on the fleeting dusk.

Lightening bugs
held within wind gusts.

Crept up slow
as sauntering drunks.

under low hung iron-bridge;
slicked mud and rocks.

Root River below,
life we fish, tied lures with knots.

August 12, 2014

Man Man at Triple Rock

Observant trend scene,
Heavy tattoo engrained,
Faux-tough and minor mean,
Façade, true, is claimed.

Street: Riverside, easy ride:
Perspective existing local,
Patched bags for small fries;
Real hipsters for yokels.

Through Cultures and Vultures,
Much Music and Trash-
Relative status shown vouchers,
Can’t see; bright lights we lack.

Stand in short lines outside.
Killing self with thin cigarettes;
Realize these lies through eyes,
One puff at a time, we forget-

Dive into undulating pool of people
Scuffed tennis shoes tied loose,
Sweat smell we breathe through-
Sip expensive cheap rail booze.

Catch the Route 2 Bus to be,
This night-life part of the city.
***
Motto: seen you there before, but never met, as in meet.
Standing dirty wet floor below feet until it’s time to leave.

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