Posts tagged ‘MN’

April 20, 2015

Commute Home through Como

On a home commute lately,
on Como Avenue’s length,
under streetlamp’s orange presence,
with blurred trucks and cars,

where sleeping neighborhoods
and empty industry wait;

I am moving between point A and point B,
I am alone in the dark nodding hello
to the stoplights changing,
empty storefront’s grey,
and mounting sidewalk debris.

Still some bars glow,
still long trains roll.

Coming to me are night smells
of dried hay—ironic spring,
careless weed smoke blown,
and fabric softener exhaust—all biking home.

Lost in darkened new elements
under low heavens, star speckled skies,

lately through Como,
on a commute between two cities,
resting local economy,
where sparkling broken glass
is scattered—reflect, a sight,
in clouded purple shade
of night, no sun, to my eyes, and going home.

April 19, 2015

A Unique Poetry Slam,

where difference is proclaiming your hardships
in the same way as everyone else.

April 17, 2015

A Good Day

A good day
starts with
a good morning,

starts with clear sight,
forgotten
wrongs
of yesterday,
and an open mind,

starts with a coffee in hand,
ripened fruit,
and reconnecting
with
loved ones,

starts with movement
about
a crowded
Midwestern city’s
lands;

a good day starts with starting,
a good day starts with you.

April 16, 2015

After the Midwest Poetry Summit,

settle in,

I sat on a wooden deck
regaling
the Midwest Poetry Summit,

what a night, sights
with friends
and poets,

tightly surrounded,
though alone,

whisky breath and sunburnt,

looking over
to
see Scott Seekins—the Artist, the artistry,
everywhere and nowhere at once: art,

here
were
local artists sitting in a corner,
all talking and laughing,

patting each other’s backs with hard-handed purpose—see(?),
an overzealous—bee sting effect,

saying: “we are” and “oh ho!”,
and smiling;

it was enough
to make a common person cry,

so
my eyelids
unhinged
a tidal wave
and
I
hugged
myself
to
death.

April 15, 2015

Dangerous Objects

The
most dangerous,
and worrisome,
objects
that
could potentially
occupy
the space within a backpack
are
heavy and overpriced textbooks
and
cheap ripened bananas,
next to each
other.

They tell a tale of economics and lifestyle…

I
think this
as
I go along Coffman Memorial Union,
the pricey disaster
on my
back.

April 14, 2015

We Think

I thought,
You thought,
I thought,
You thought…

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 12, 2015

Experience the Movement: during AWP 2015

In a tight vanilla pale room
with a tangerine sunset view,
where high association
shared big words
and accomplishments tacitly,
wink to a nod,
rubbing elbows,
touching pinked-white hands—shaking,
close, related, akin,
with more than five dollar’s worth of language present, presented,
of which few perhaps did understand,
it didn’t matter though,
behind modern dark faux wooden frames, Lennon round,
piercing eyes darted—knowing names, big thanks,
as bodies in ironed button up shirts,
suit jackets dusted,
leather shoes shined,
and neutral colored slacks creased,
hair done stiff, fine—slicked back shine,
reading aloud
lines and verses and words;
poems unfamiliar,
as those within oohed and aahed,
at each vocal cord’s articulation,
as attendees and audience members
smiled, drank, laughed, explained, translated, and clapped.
A brave man said with confidence to the glaring crowd: this was the movement,
we were it.
I guess maybe I couldn’t relate;
I felt more like a dried stalk of corn in a Midwestern summertime field,
some monocultures are unescapable.

April 10, 2015

Minneapolis Streets

Hennepin
Central
Franklin
Nicollet

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.

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