Posts tagged ‘minneapolis’

February 26, 2015

Bakken through Minneapolis

Night black as Bakken
oil, which malignly pours past silent
communities,

shipped in cryptic-marked tanker cars
under cover of darkness, rightly
so, they move obtusely opaque—

opposite downtown lights which stick to a wetted haze
in the distance, making this Midwest city glow
for miles—some say 150 of them away.

The shit we’ve seen, and haven’t.

That which creeps along can be found in a jet, in
a car, or on foot,

in hardened
rock snow-crust, cold as a
flushed-toilet shower’s mist—you know; everything
is connected, retraced, unplugged,
tubed, tied, aborted,
and rewind.

Truths for lies:
This is safe,
This is fact,
This in fact is safe,
We care about you.

It is snug-up, or snug-down, or
just snug enough, or caught in between comfortable,
and I can’t go outside,
I have to decide.

Then it is: A pub visit, a flipped
switch, a lit door in the distance—these
palm trees have become foreigners
in desert sands which have turned to mud
by native rain power in your very living room
by way of: your very hand;

the vessel you hold,
repurposed from some ornate
decoration, from some ornate
description, from so-and-so’s ornate party,
or from some ornate magazine—ornate parts
of these

-Cult clubs.

And that is life:
black as night as petro ships by, as exhaust fumes fly,
as exhausted you sleeps, you snore, you don’t think;
as an “elected” official’s bank account goes cha-ching,
as a CEO draws outside of the lines, and talks energy.

(of course we need)

as the air goes in and out
of his mouth,
and in and out,
and in and out—

Like fucking, really.
Hey, you thought it. :)

Humans without a care,
they are there happily unawares.

With smiles on their dreaming faces,
as that napalm tube rolls on steel wheels in their backyards.

February 25, 2015

Free Me

Blood for ink,
the page for flesh,
and few words for character
description;

their imprint does stain,
the pinprick storyline
of a feeling—

I would sit and count
for minutes,
hours,
days,
months,
years,
etc.

but sitting is not conducive
to good movement, patience does nothing
except waste time
and progress
and dull the mind…

They may say: relax, let it pass.

that time; what could be
a particular goal seen to fruition.

Those who hold the ties that bind,
the keys we need,
are working steadily behind my
eyes,

the nerve—these nerves,
and more; each synapsis connects to
the message passed,

this circuit board commanding:

a knee jerk,
a hand slap,
an orgasm,
twitching muscles going to
bed—as you rock to zzzzzzzzzz.

Found out in between,
no verse to discuss,
no song to critique,

just the rigid clock’s tick,
and those who run by it (and from it):

they tell us what to do—
how to eat sleep and breath—
where to be, what to wear, how to look,
when and where—
there—and how to see.

Now who tells you how to be?

February 25, 2015

how do they “know”

If people “know” more than
they have experienced
or read,

how can
you trust what
they “know”.

February 24, 2015

Taking Tuesday

Waking to this early Tuesday overcast
Love and work scatter the wooden floor below

Amongst dust rhinos and smudged folders, as
Stacked bound books beg for openness

Violins float in the apartment, making classical
Air, as though class systems didn’t exist

A tea kettle is burnt alive at the stove top,
While I starve in scraps of last night, of last minute,

Of yesterday, and of the rest of my life;
These pieces abstract on this yellow kitchen table

The body is fine when the temperature is above freezing;
Spring is here, teasing us back out of our shells—

Newly just out of bed, just in new light,
Now is the product of our sensitive closed eyes

And a person should acquire all of it,
And it’s just the second day of the week

February 23, 2015

bandwagon

I once met this “poet”,
He hadn’t written a single word—
It’s been years since then,
He bears the same rank and title.

February 21, 2015

A Midwestern City

A Midwestern city holds its frozen contents—
These hardened pieces go about on their own.
Uniquely conditioned to unforgiving climates;
Still those passive parts make up the whole.

February 20, 2015

Make Everything

Make
everything in
life,

But
excuses.

February 18, 2015

this is your life

No order,
only hard fate;
this is your life,
so why wait?

February 17, 2015

a late day

I wake to shower,
She wakes to paint,
The cat wakes to eat,
We all might be late.

February 16, 2015

When does Spring return?

The city bus hums to me
As I wind through wet streets.

A stoplight shouts “wait”!
From a four-corner crossing.

White flakes fall heavy, thick—
Clouding a straight-line view.

We walk along the way wondering:
When does spring return?

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