Posts tagged ‘English’

May 28, 2015

Warhol

The gallery
of
unmade artwork
in your head
will
be forever closed
on the advent
of
your death.

May 16, 2015

an evening apartment

where gin drinks made wet rings upon wooden floors,
as open windows became sirens ringing in my ears.

May 14, 2015

Have Your Day

The day you have
is of your design.

May 8, 2015

well being

a neglected mind
is a tragedy.

a neglected body
is a prison.

April 29, 2015

An Evening Walk (View of Downtown Minneapolis)

I would walk Central Avenue in soft
evening light, or go through Father
Hennepin Park around the same time.
A group of people to gather and become
pedestrians again on The Stone Arch’s
sandy beige bricks. To be seen smarted
by simple standing architecture, art,
and all of its cracked parts—the park too,
its sentiment with skyline shapes inset
in the distance, contrasted, outlined
in values: greys, whites, blues, golds,
and blacks. Shades reigning, measured
to a straight line and immensely looming,
cast down at those eyeing below. People
sit in fast passing cars, as those on
foot step. Thoughts to traverse, within
and without. It was another day to walk,
to watch, to wait, and to go, to move,
or to stay, on this dusk path through
downtown Minneapolis and straight back.

April 24, 2015

Ironic Idiot

And you have an idea
where the mass of society is stuck within technology,

not in life,
not in environment,
not there—just socially aloof,

a society prop void,
a somnambulist day to day,
interconnected;

and that same person,
one akin,
counters with, “that idea is trite.”

as they reach for their smartphone
to update their profile
with a semi-interesting proclamation,
for all to measure.

They are lost as an ironic example,
trying to be anything but.

April 22, 2015

Paradise Lost (Over Beer)

I knew that it couldn’t ever be,
At that moment it was entirely true,
When I asked you to “throw me a beer”
And a Bud Light Lime is what you threw.

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.

April 10, 2015

Minneapolis Streets

Hennepin
Central
Franklin
Nicollet

April 3, 2015

To The Library, A Day of Doors

Here with a dashboard view,
sleepy eyes take
the quiet city coming alive,

we are few between many doors,

Falcon Heights and going,
street to street,
community to community,

into the morning routine forgotten
on this early route.

Sitting shotgun
under damp skies heavy,
and fleeting streetlamps,
there waiting is the shielded sun,

we go;

creamed coffee in the center console sea
splashes and waves,
ebbs and flows,
high tide to low,

becoming more clouded,

at each abrupt lurch of fresh tire to ground,
at each crude pothole found.

Out with a love kiss
and a copasetic slammed rusty door,

moving towards
a red-brick building amongst other zombies,
dogs, and cats—I hold the door.

Administration signs we pass: “authorized personnel only”,
keys with their jiggling change sound of agency,
intimately within, feeling special again…

Through vacant hallways which exist resembling tubes
and tunnels and fish tanks—minus exotic fish,
with subzero refrigeration units which are warning: no food (!),
and photos of past passers-thru hugging plaques.

Press a sticky button for the elevator—engage the motion,
ding ding ding, ah…
lonely polished doors open,
step in, and close, to hit the number four…

Wait…
Wait…
Wait…

I should have taken the stairs today…
I think, exercise…

We stop,
and out to a wooden door and a sparkling tile floor,
unclipping keys to enter this cryptic lounge,
no one near, just me here.

Turn in, let the day begin,
and come get your books.

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