Posts tagged ‘love’

April 25, 2015

wake up.

I had
only
to
wake up
to see
the
beautiful
day.

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 21, 2015

Education Vs. Nature

Sat in a classroom,
boxy and smug,
to

hear the whole world passionately explained,
exactly described,

as
it happens before
and without us
just
outside.

April 13, 2015

Monday Anon Anew

Monday is a rebirth
of the past two days forgotten—
a new moment, a new mindset,
and a new chance.

Though,
we are the oldest
we’ve ever been
right now.

Still,
we are young as is,
as naïve,
as buds on tree branches sprout.

Soft eyes sore,
a window’s breeze of Spring must
through messed hair,
in sharp lights which have come on again
at the rotating of the earth.

Outside is exactly inviting warm.

Here we are,
here we prep,
here this Monday anon anew.

April 9, 2015

The Best Idea that you Forgot Last Night

This wet morning I
am without
last night’s genius,

do you remember, I ask her.

It was a good one-liner.

No, she says…
I was tired.

So was I,
lacking a near pen, paper sat
on the nightstand as my head rested in
a pillow, my body under
a warm white duvet, next to her loving,

and at that moment my genius got up, jealous,
waited, and then moved to the door.

It felt all right
to let my genius
walk out and away.

Though, I hope it beat the rain.

April 5, 2015

Grain Belt Sign

Looking over the tanned Hennepin Avenue Bridge
where a shaded Grain Belt sign still won’t shine.

Here too, Nicollet Island looms in an aromatic Spring night,
shadowed by new and ancient high-rises, boxes of floors,

holes of light, standing against the straightening northern winds.
These apartments of the departed—mills and factories and dreams,

ghosts left for better times and warmer climes.
They no more see the Guthrie above a scintillating river’s distance,

no more spiraling down Gold Medal Park pathways
through thick buggy twilights, in tow bags full of books and beer

slung over shoulders, no more here; new eyes peer.
No more boats or barges pass through the upper lock and dam

loaded with local commodities, as pedestrians stroll along St. Anthony Main
catching a movie, drinking and spending, as tangled trees

build up and obstruct the Mississippi flow below Central, sounding wetness,
sounding to south. For this sign there is no more light.

Right here, remembering this unlit hallmark as headlamps
of cars buzz flashing by, on dotted pot-holed streets,

we on feet, bumble through dialogue of what we read and where we’ve been.
This sign now is painted black as it watches over downtown in the fore,

were it shining off of the muddy waters, were it catching in cigarette smoke
exhaled, were it meeting pupils and blazing that scene on some

grey matter fold in a viewer’s mind, it would still be lit up there,
hanging above a tanned bridge, in its gold, black, white, and red.

April 4, 2015

Easter Poem

The Easter Bunny
died,

and three days later
he rose again…

with a bunch
of

fucking candy.

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.

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.

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