Posts tagged ‘English’

February 7, 2016

Too many is never enough (You’re Not Alone)

It’d be a shame to not realize…

this breakfast has more passion,
my tongue has more taste;
the bold world we now live in,
everyone’s got something to say.

Oh, you’re also a local writer?
Oh, you write about injustices too?
See, I want something truly novel,
I really want something new.

And what about the morning coffee?

January 30, 2016

when someone dies, you know

vivid
energetic
life,

to a
faded
bag
of effervescent
flesh,

inanimate
void,

a torn
latex glove,

a sack
seeped through.

bone
meal.

iron.

film.

i am here
right now.

i am
fading.

January 23, 2016

awake: the play

A poet writes in SE Minneapolis about the trials and tribulations of a Friday night gone mildly awry. He is surrounded by the cat’s meow, a blowing electrical heater, and the buzz of a refrigerator standing in a near vacant kitchen. The sky is overcast mute through slitted shades. He broods in his mildly sarcastic Minnesotan fashion, feeling the pains of last night’s waste while coming to terms with how his workouts aren’t working out. And nothing happens…

scene 1:
to wake in uptown
fully clothed and hot,
recounting bad
pajamas and enough
beer to consume
an entire Heggies pizza.

(and people starve abroad,
and others win
the lottery at home, and he
still tries.)

here,
i’d rather see myself
in Beat coffeehouse
having conversation

about
cutting ties with
negatives, and always
smiling through the shit,

and elaborate schemes…

i’d rather be
confused and
frightened,
than comfortable
in the same
old place.

*
certain days you wake
up away, and certain days
you don’t wake up at all.

*

monologue:
but i won’t wait,
why, why sit back
at the theatre
and watch the
other performers
take what they will?

(all life is
performance art;

even the
bathroom is
theatre.)

monologue 2:
no, it was a nice way
to wake up, in the dark
on the phone with love

at five am,
to need water,
to set the alarm,
to find my glasses to
see it all perfectly
clear in grey light.

(the cold was there
waiting for him just
as it was the night
before, and he went to it.)

scene 2:
i just found myself
at the darkest place before
i came back home
huffing on a cold bike,

and someone at the open
mic knew my name,

still all the words for
the poem were lost
in alcohol and water,
in laughs and sighs.

they snapped at the wrong
parts and guffawed
at pigment jokes;

i guess pink is a funny color.

scene 3:
so, sitting over
simple english and
talking academia
with coffee on my breath

i found the song
i had searched months
for and wrote it down
with my blog link
shamelessly on the back of
someone else’s ephemera,

then i stuck it to a blackboard
and biked with thin layers
from south to north,

to home to shower,
to think i think.

this is where you can find me.
awake.

FIN

January 13, 2016

Naked between clothes…

As you do,
you’ll figure it out.

As you do.

January 11, 2016

9 below

9 below
and nothing
really
matters.

A dusting
of snow,
but what’s
that?

The forecast
doesn’t
mention the
wind’s biting,

the aching
bones,

or heavy layers
of clothes:

hat, gloves,
scarves,
long underwear,
and coat.

We Minnesotans,
we know.

9 below
is what
they call it,

but it’s something
else, something
more imposing;

it’s cold life,
like that,

nothing more than negative.

And I prefer zero,
calm and neutral.

And I prefer anything
but minus digits.

January 10, 2016

Last Night Allegory (Smoke Rising Over The Hennepin Avenue Bridge)

One time
bold people
walked
cold paths

under
hollow skies.

Last night
was nice,

even
with
the weather.

January 9, 2016

Realism in 4 Sentences

the 1st sentence:
you make it
what it truly is.
and then two:
nothing else
in this big-small
city matters,
not even the
bold peripheral
blatherings: blah,
blah, blah, blah…
or (3): the incessant
boring doldrums
of certain choice
modern artistry.
last (4) sentence:
when will your
actions reflect
this sentiment?

January 3, 2016

(being lazy) all through the city

being lazy is my favorite thing to do.
i bike to West Photo to get 35mm film.
i drop money at the bank to pay rent.
i go on Nicollet to get fitted for a suit.
being lazy is great, as it pervades me.
i sit at The Local in downtown and talk.
i notice the bartender and server going.
i tell a joke & move thru tore up streets.
being lazy is my favorite thing to do.
i think i am doing this task so well.
i walk to magazine boxes placing art.
i write poems and prose and no one cares.
i think of how Monday there is change.
i think of how tonight is really tomorrow.
i meet local celebrities and have a chat.
i forget names and don’t mention it.
i get a discount for being a smartass.
i try not to find excuses for being me.
i try not to hear excuses for being you.
being lazy is my favorite thing to do.
i drink water instead of vodka bloodies.
i walk out on the ice and drink a beer.
i take photos of a sunset over trees.
i love the blue sky which lights me pale.
being lazy is my favorite thing to do.
being this lazy takes up so much time.

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 17, 2015

the facts of life

the only real
facts of life
are there
are no
facts of life,
we simply
guess
with problematic
language
which best
route–or priori,
applies to us
at any
given time.
how we
imagine it all
turns
out has nothing
to do with
the outcome
or the
described “facts
of life.”

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