Posts tagged ‘minneapolis’

May 29, 2015

A Ride to Work with Late Masters

Sweet smell of morning
and leavings of last night’s rain
were scattered about,
sluiced on glass and ground,
left abandoned for drying.

A naked wrist called to remember Warhol.

The wild storm came and went,
as 4am was time, as day break was birthed,
as the tired feeling that reels one to a cold shower expires,
as eyes to a mirror interrogation, to face this—
was deep and strong.

Hands never moved on the melting clocks, where ants carried away.

Haring said, “I am becoming much more aware of movement.
The importance of movement is intensified
when a painting becomes a performance.
The performance (the act of painting)
becomes as important as the resulting painting.”

In order to become whole energy burst through,
coming down pieces, it restored movement.

Where stiff blades of grass begged of overcast—end this holocaust,
“Just drop, fall already!”

And it happened, moving in a storm-window screen
as a runaway train through a dark tunnel,
as a maladroit thief in the night—confused at access, loud.

And that was the waking siren emboldened,
no firetruck’s scream, no squad car whoop, no alarm bells ringing.

Dali enjoyed watching Gala with other lovers, they came.

This sound predated them all,
and it was just pressure and water and air and now.

I caught the leftovers in a rearview mirror flared reflection
at a stop light turned red; the droplets cascaded down
at the truck’s growly acceleration.

Soppy beads rocked in zigzags about the exterior of a blackened rusted frame.

Sun caught on the cloy smell of dying lilacs—sweet,
chain coffee in the console—weak,
and exhaust from a boxy bus that was slipping by noisily—disgust,

motivation to kill, the latter cacophony in soft mushroomed cartilage.

The formers caught porous nose at the same time.

We were all traveling in the storm’s wake to get somewhere,
and some of us were living unnoticed.

May 28, 2015

Warhol

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

May 27, 2015

New Danger: Water Balloons and Squirt Guns

Nowadays water balloons and squirt guns
are considered dangerous weapons.

Oddities which can get you tackled to the ground, cuffed,
and thrown into the back of a police cruiser.

It’s kind of funny.

I remember being younger, maybe 8 or so,
and having all-out wars with other kids
at Wildcat Landing near Brownsville, MN.

No one won, there were no casualties.

We would be throwing water balloons
and squirting each other with Super Soakers,
these dangerous weapons.

Their biggest offense was they wasted water.

To get it in the eye would sometimes start tears,
someone would inevitably run to Ma.

The midday sun was usually high,
the smell of sand and the chopping Mississippi
would be in the unbroken air.

Adults drank domestic beers and listened to classic rock.

We were just kids back then, with colorful toys.

Later on as a child, I remember my dad once shot his rifle
in the sky above a plainclothes officer
in our driveway at 1045 Bush Valley Rd.

The agent told us to get all of our guns/weapons.

I went inside and found my squirt guns
and brought them out.

The officer said with surprise, “Not those, son.”
He didn’t take my guns,
back then they were harmless.

He let me go, slap on the wrist.

Nowadays you can get arrested for that kind of stuff.

The shit we got away with,
man we were bad.

May 26, 2015

How the Rain Goes

How the rain goes.

The day the morning skies opened up,
rain came down in steady droplet form.

We know that feeling, the coming change,
or at least the animals do.

Around were deeper shades of green,
deep sepia trunks of trees, and veils of standing water.

There was no dry in the air, no dry in the heavens;
precipitation entered, and we are waiting for it to pass.

Bodies came wetted through,
going door to door so far away,
at any destination, at any time—covered.

It happens out of the clouds,
out of miracle,
out of nowhere,
out of thin air, out of life.

Miniature trails come sluiced as streams veined out,
their knotted design along sidewalks spread.

Now it is everywhere, on you dripping, on leaves, on outer matter, and on the ground.

It is soaking, seeping, as it follows gravity down—this life, new and old as one pooled.

Rain went sounding harder and harder,
pouring and pouring,
cats and dogs,
jazz crescendo, percussion,
high hat smashed, pit-pat pit-pat,
drumroll going, please,
brrrump brrrump,
to this bursting waterfall overflow,
busting through,
there was no escaping its element.

The day the morning skies opened up,
rain came down in steady droplet form,
and you were caught in between this transition of wet and dry,
not there, then alive,
then entrenched, then changed, just so.

How the rain goes.

May 24, 2015

Touched by Sweetness

Having impregnated
a mind
of pulsating flowers;
touched by sweetness
they stir,
coming in
at full bloom.

May 22, 2015

The Miracle of You

That great idea sparkled,
imagining a self that is beyond oneself,
though alike all others,
but different.

Where breathing air is a miracle
of filling a mass, and seeing for sight
a mechanism viewed, not closely near to being understood,
nor recreated.

And flesh and bone, a false creationism,
one of God, of man—of both alike;
the muse so exactly measured,
so detailed and defined and primed.

To discuss it would be off topic.
So, let’s cut to the chase.
Realism in truth, no “isms” could deduce it
to reasons or plainness, or a way to prove it in ways.

There is nothing and everything all at once, just waiting, just waking,
and this time it is just you who steps out of the front door to go.

Au revoir

May 21, 2015

Pre-Open Mic on Nicollet Avenue

Streetlamps poured
a waxen yellow glow on the Nicollet Avenue scene below,
as above heavens danced and sparked white
as now onlookers stood and watched.

The hum of vehicular masses turned to a city of cratered paths,
while people were lit as props, good and evil,
coming and going about their static business.

This nature in society, framed, isolated—what we have;
metal grasps of synthetic hands
coming to and shaping us,
to make up our wake up, to shake up our trust.

Bleeding oil, exhausting fumes,
killing cows, and loud preaching fools;

we exist as a populous,
with meaningful purpose, and American sentimentalism.

Illuminated here by streetlamp’s waxen yellow glow, on Nicollet,
under heavens about to open wet,
mingling with ghosts of our yesterday,
with whole cultures of churches and states to thank.

Amen.

May 20, 2015

The Cat and The Squirrel (55414)

The backyard squirrel foraged
Rolling through a thick grass,
Rubbing its underside on dirt,
Thin belly in a thin brown fur,
Moving thru sniffing, bobbing.
The cat watched from the sill,
On a makeshift dresser drawer,
Eyes darted at every twitch made,
At every moment of food found.
The two were close, intermingled,
Not viewing each other though,
Just seeing themselves different,
Obscured by a dripping window,
Staring at what could’ve been.

May 19, 2015

Bathroom Backdrop Part 1.

“I can gather all the news I need on the weather report” –Simon & Garfunkel

There is a varied world view at 9:00am.
I sat in a bathroom on a chipped enamel seat,
where devices scattered and dusted lived on the floor,
or clamped to a metal bar on the pale skin of a small wall,
they were begging for a purpose.

Here, the white draped hand towel symbolized stormy conflicts
which could become a bit less precipitous,

next to that, the hair-iron and blow dryer—likewise the same, utilize me now.

They were items I seldom ever touched.
They called me, shining, purposefully—let’s fix this problem.
We have a solution.

They spoke of their warmth in the form of buzzing,
in the cool air of the bathroom.

They were not like me on this cold beginning, I was unplugged and exposed.
They were about to be turned on.

In morning a system of systems was awoken.

My hair was too short to be straightened, too drought dry—no need for blowing,
and sometimes I liked my hands wet because hydration is key.

And they still needed something to fix, still needed a purpose.

May 16, 2015

an evening apartment

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

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