Posts tagged ‘Facts’

June 30, 2014

Certainty

Death, a certainty in life
Just one…

Gut-rot hung-over
Dirt in sleepy eyes

Then the rain came;
Drained,
Growth sustained.

Death, a certainty in life
Just one…

Changes as the clouds in the sky

Once tried
Once tried

No more

Certainly.

June 4, 2014

Local Odds and Ends

Currently my ears are to The Current:
1.) I need to do a membership drive.
2.) I need to tell you what I have to offer.

You may need me.

The someday sun guides these moments,
Skimming and scanning words for entertainment.

Dessa Darling writes of trendy folk
Sitting somewhere in Uptown
In a hyped-up exclusive dive
She frequents all the time.

…How natural.
Feeling somewhat deprived…

Locally famous can get you work—
Haven’t you heard?
Can one person tell us of life?
Exposing us to worth

__Describe what to like,
And what’s cool, new, and authentic! (Right?)

Stories retold
Mundane to old
Fresh to mold
Hot to cold
And I digress,

I do so, but
So it goes.

Who decides the content?
What did they accomplish?

A fine print promise

Only allowing what we should know;
Ads and Marketing pave the road.

Candle to the sun
Eyes attempt escape
Another torn notion
Another empty page

We read on:
We read on.

Their sales people and prospectors betray
Their photo editors have much to display
Constantly political in profitable ways
Constantly cynical; printing what pays

And we run off to a book, to a poem, to a forest, to a river,
To hear nothing but the truth.

April 30, 2014

The whole world in 105 lines (amongst peers)

The whole world in 105 lines (amongst peers):

Here’s a start:
We all have Minds
We all have Hearts

We all have Eyes
Contemplation of kinds
Time;
Histories and Pasts,
That we forget

Movements

Moments we haven’t
Spent

That of what
Of which
We can reflect:

Before, Now, Happenstance,
And Present Tense–

There,
I said it in less.

Let’s not digress
There’s more to life
Than what’s defined
Even in 105 lines

Even if you were to try,

However, at least you did

I promise-

The whole world is like this.

(End)

The only person stopping you from doing anything is yourself.

September 1, 1939, By W. H. Auden.

February 19, 2014

Finding Honey in Portland

She asked about organic honey

How much money

 

In Portland

Beforehand

 

I had a response:

 

On Twitter

Labeled winner

 

It came in small portions

Trivial facts and small conversation for dinner:

 

Days of our lives;

It’s flying a sign

It’s flipping dimes

It’s standing in line just waiting to be defined

 

It’s so rude I wouldn’t call it mine

Not on my life

 

It’s looking for a new problem

Not for what solves them

 

It is new material

It’s so ephemeral and ethereal

 

It’s so loud you couldn’t hear it though

Like your ears were blown

 

It’s probably right before you

It’s right after that, behind your back

 

Daily desk sit

Ingest shit

Fucks-given with a best wish and a fresh kiss

 

All about love and trust

I’ve got love and a few bucks

 

And the diversification of investments

In some aspects

 

We strive to exist

With which we now exit:

 

A plethora of abstract questions and lists

And thoughts of things we just missed.

January 8, 2014

Polar Vortex Complex

Deep down in my bones I could feel the bitter cold

Unlike the weather I tried to remain positive

I could feel I wasn’t alone on this ill-tempered day.

 

The other commuters were as bold

Walking alone proved treacherous

I noticed this as I made my way.

 

Fixed we stood.

 

None took bare fingers to examine smart phones

So pained by the wind one could hear its distant moan

This had turned into a city full of steam and smoke and coats.

 

KVJ says, “So it goes.”  “So it goes.”  “So it goes…”

 

Warm thoughts what we could

Long minutes existed in time unknown

This as we waited in a bus shelter along the road on this dangerously weathered spinning stone.

 

… Here’s the 3B coming, right?

 

I can’t see, lenses create ice

Early day twilight wearing these damned sights

All eyes and no view, please help me make it through.

 

It must be dark as night on this frigid January morning

It was forecasted with forewarning

They said, ‘Stay inside.’ -like run and hide.

 

We have the Polar Vortex Complex

This is not Global Warming*.

 

This is a place where all inside have lost their minds because of ‘things’ being boring.

 

Thoughts, then I look on

Blurred Metro Transit lights?

 

Praying it’s not gone.

 

I am not even halfway there yet

A walk I fast regret.

 

Lungs feel tight, I start at fright.

 

Walking, my vision fogged and I forgot the art of breathing

Ice crystals formed on my lashes not for the better of seeing.

 

-Seething, I’d not like to die like this, on a near vacant campus

I begged, pleaded, and asked the UMPD for a small ride, I did not gain advantage.

 

Nothing happened.

 

Five minutes later my temperature changed

The outside temperature stayed the same.  (Below Something-nearing -50)

 

I thought, has my nose frozen yet, has carbon-monoxide damaged my brain?

Blackened and blotched flesh-stained.

 

All was but rearranged, all my ideas of sustain

All my big plans were being choked at the throat

I try manage at maintain.

 

Things we think about in a bundle

In this frost-bit jungle, the coldest city I have come to know.

 

Minneapolis,

Little cold apple, come as they go

Most, (at least), some will stay home.

 

Temperature of this place we live in

All things we’ve been given.

 

I must have blindly run off somewhere

Panic gulp puffs of smoke catching air as I passed

Mad dash hypothermic maniac, today I am back intact.

 

 

*Hyperbole

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December 9, 2013

From Books to Blogs; A Story of Evolution

 

From books to blogs like cats and dogs;

We’re surrounded by a million writers with a million words,

Wanting to get read and be heard- absurd.

 

Zombies scare me less.

 

How to Be a Famous Writer:

Start today, don’t delay, and get on your way.

Print press doesn’t pay like they say.

It only takes a few seconds to change your ways.

 

Like Flies on Shit.

 

What’s an artist’s wage?

Cost per page?

Adverts?

 

MPR broadcasts their crying.

You’d think people were dying.

 

Do they even fucking read?

 

I could hardly hold back my laughter.

 

Then we look at progress, and the prospects.

Not finding a silver-lining.

 

No room for wining and dining.

 

You find that surprising?

 

No one’s getting fatter.

 

This hobby wasn’t to fill any part of any wallet.

Act like Author Gods but they haven’t yet penned their ‘Hobbit’.

Just minds and thoughts figuring how those unique (everyone) call it.

They were so close, but they lost it.

 

I want to vomit.

 

I don’t see.

They follow what they want to be.

Flee to the next scheme…

 

But sadly others have been there before; up, down, and in between; twice, three times, maybe four.

Do we need anymore?

 

Can we chart forward progress by going backward?

 

Recline, sit in a chair.

Analyze, document, look, read, compare,

Tense up and think about how life is unfair.

 

Are you prepared?

 

Open Market, Open Mic, there’s an Open Season on the Weekend Artist tonight.

-Awake and aware of the unawares.

-Happily, a positive outlier without a care.

Counter parts rest comfortably under stairs.

 

Understand the standard deviation and mean,

But not meaning to be mean-

 

All part of the artistry in the Minneapolis Scene,

Wipe ass with freshly torn pages.

 

Print press has changed throughout the ages,

And they present new material as if it’s not dated…

 

Faded yellow on a dusty shelf. 

He called it sleeping knowledge.

I think his popularity needs help. 

 

And all of those resources have been wasted.

They don’t factor external cost,

They can’t calculate their displacement*.

 

At least hope and ambition aren’t lost.

 

 

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Displacement_(psychology)

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December 2, 2013

The Sum of Small Parts

I am the makeup of freshly dead heritage,

This only proves my merit-age.

 

Bikes for carriages; we ride through lonely skyscrapers.

 

Sitting amongst crumpled papers and beer chasers,

Getting wasted is the only word-spoken disclaimer.

 

I’ll take your money; I’m a card-player, shark, dangerous-major, and one of the remainders.

Ask about my hand at 39’ sometime.

 

Language proclaimed loud and proud, with or without, making joyous sound resound between eyes of doubt.

 

Wanting to go home, 26 year-old- little kid, on my own in the big unknown:

-Advantage of Id.

-Afraid so I hid.

-We did what we did, called the bids and pulled the lids.

 

But, that was years ago,

Found time to watch blood and flesh grow.

 

Adult now, it’s my fault now.

 

I control me, watch and see.

What I am is all I can be.

I know I can pick friends but not family…

 

I am proud of who I am,

But I can’t speak for some of (and) them.

 

Then I think, like my Ma says, “you can’t win em’ all,”

And, “it’s thirty-six on Tuesday.”

 

What did I say anyway?

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 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.

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