Posts tagged ‘MN’

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 27, 2015

Tomorrow Today

And sweet taste on the tongue
takes a person far; a lemon drop atomic bomb,
here and gone as Hiroshima.

Today is made up of
your wishes,
my tasks,
and some trivial thought
between purchases
and cognitive dissonance…

We love for the time, the moment to pass,
the time we sit and wait, we must hate.

Tomorrow didn’t come yesterday.

Never a gripe to regret,
never a sound to forget,
to the blind eye all gore is beauty,
to the deaf cacophony is glory.

Minutes make up days, as pennies do dollars.

Do you walk on by
or pick up and try?

Do you watch close the shtick,
or see the second-hand tick?

Prefixed we sit,
to sat at that,
a breakfast table slow,
and a radio loud,
a thought at mind:

no more cages.

Gone with smoke, I am last year’s joke,
last month’s hope,
and tomorrow’s unattainable dreams.

Now people eat trash,
like whose hands did grace it,
the name makes the food,
and the food tastes much better.

O’ Southeast in you do me;
my body feels the cold
while the waxy hung sun bites
my dry little face.

Laced up and tied down;
we brought the wine,
we brought the rye,
we brought the hateful words,
and the back-pats too—good friends,
how true.

Parts of me, are parts of we,
just in between;

while
on a walk an old car goes by,
it is another with another
life inside.

I wonder,
where do they go right now?

I am right here.

March 26, 2015

Procrastination and Lists of 612

Waiting the day
for something
to happen;

wasting the now
for the then.

Sharp alarms, busy commutes, weathered words,
between;

we are too—
local tasks, art, lists, work, and trends.

March 24, 2015

forgotten change

A monoculture of plants
in a field
offers a species fading—

a group of homogeneous acts
between skyscrapers
offers a…

well,

you get the point.

***

Now,

I must have stepped onto the bus
and forgotten my change.

Can I borrow from you?

March 22, 2015

Perfect Artist

Sharing small town concepts,
language, in hopes to pave a path;

at a bar stool conversation,
after an empty whisky shot throat-sting,
as beer bubbles trace a 1/3 full pint glass.

One local could move forward with art,
or make it easy—take a step back.

Laugh , and seize the moment…
I think about it…
I say: but the proof is only if it kills you,
your art,
Bukowski said that,
I sort of believe the man.

We are not perfect artists, really—no one is,
the evidence is: we are still alive, mostly.

See: I’ve been to a few funerals;
I know the end of my story will be
surrounded by a shovel, dirt, words, and a box.

Then, a man I don’t know will tell others about me.

There’s advertising.

(The real artist is the priest who doesn’t know you acting like he does,
he swears to god. You were good, though god doesn’t understand death.)

Then, no more art will come out of you,
but they will hear it.

That is the perfect artist and art.
That is the truth, perhaps.

March 21, 2015

Out of Dodge, 52 South to La Crescent

There are pieces to account for
while getting out of Dodge,
on a Friday eve, away from the city—
on the mind of those,

sat in an aged black truck on edgy burnt-out energy;
a person can purchase a mass of pink-violet
spectacle taking over western skies,

glorious sunset in tired eyes,
painting cloaked-clouds,
heavy dark, invoking peering pupils.

That giant burning orb,
light-years away,
is sinking into a foreland field,

browned is a Minnesota plain’s silhouette to come,
spotted with tail-lights
and oncoming forgotten brights;

before cars snaked out of the city
on veined webs of pavement,
onto highway 35,

which roller-coastered up and down,
thru and around,

wheels traversed crude potholes
and bad drivers—ones inciting rage,
to 52 South, to less ego.

And in the cockpit:
a cracked window,
a rear-view gaze,
changing bootlegged CDs,
and easy conversation.

The journey goes:
follow the lines to-,
follow the lights to-,
follow the signs to-,

each less visible moment passing,
each shadowed monument dusted;
stop here, stop there, no stops at all…
Make time.
Make tracks.
Make it back.

under shrouded moon above,
each sparsely laden gas station,
each pre-ghost town affixed—

to Rochester, by Rushford,
past Winona and Houston,
fast 73mph, thru Nodine—

establishments wax a dimly lit yellow,
down a long hill stretch to 14 61,

along hulks of vibrant-by-day bluffs,
past looming Lock and Dam No 7,

along the sounding Mississippi,
waters show streetlamps caught in the flow, luminescent,

and we go into town,
La Crescent, past the Hub
to Apple Village Liquors,
then to home.

There,
a warm room,
my smiling family,
and hugs await.

Pieces of what’s become
getting out of Dodge.

***

A good aspect of the city
can be getting out of it.

March 19, 2015

Human lives matter (Do only certain lives matter?)

“For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” -Audre Lorde

Human lives matter (Do only certain lives matter?)

When people around town or on social media express their thoughtful views I wonder,
do they think by using phrases such as:

black lives matter,
white lives matter,
native lives matter,
yellow lives matter,
gay lives matter,
purple lives matter,
red lives matter,
green lives matter, etc. etc.

(in no specific order, but always separate),

that they are not employing the same ideological tools
used to perpetuate segregation, generalization, hatred, and “-isms”?

Are we in 2015 separating groups with phrases?
Where is the community?

Don’t human lives matter?
What’s wrong with saying that?

March 18, 2015

Local Imaginaries

Observe the scattered common stones of these Twin Cities,
dusting sidewalks crumbled—ubiquitous,
taken in hand at foot, and thrown to,
from a bridge’s span above fast flowing currents of the Mississippi below.

Here flies to splash an artistry tangible,
before honest spoken words,
a sharp tone in tender ears,
which is contrast to what’s pictured:

Seen drawn lines,
Seen paintings bright,
Seen music made,
Seen night life.

Though observe them,
they are outside, heads aloft in thick-clouded dreams,
banded, mouths in perpetual motion,
hands seldom untied,
broken parts of stone—
proof over talking about the scene you’ve seen.

How those stones have accrued.

***

Some things get overlooked,
some things get stepped on;
other things get talked about profusely;
What of art does one hear?

March 15, 2015

A Sleepy Sunday in Thunder Bay

Snow fortresses wall vacant early Spring streets,
under a shadowed loom of port buildings and storefronts,
near silt, stone, and trash;

a bay city industry,
north in a blanket of cold, under veiled clouds,
welcoming those coming through,
as Lake Superior holds puzzle-pieced ice in the fore,
central view a downhill road.

And on culture, are you Finnish yet?

Exchange rates and customs await;
crossing lines, affecting time;
to transcend this border
is to travel into the future.

On one side you are 5pm on the other you are 6.
Bonjour!

Coordinates do not matter,
to warmer unfamiliar dwellings after a night under stars,
in conifer and winter’s accumulation.

Now, here waitresses speak of our home,
and her visit—of the Twin Cities,
mentioning the food,
the night life,
the scene,
and how here is better in the next season.

We are visiting Thunder Bay,
with cats and coffee,
at an evident reader and traveler’s house on a sleepy Sunday.

March 13, 2015

Prelude to Spring Break 2015

As early March had come in biting and the best were kept inside,
a span of two weeks had passed slowly and sleep had become elusive.

Professors watched second hands tick and gave out faux tests;
these symbolic life quizzes—it’s who makes it who matters.

Desks became confines as concentration went out open windows,
to welcome hands of mild weathered-breeze and new-season sun.

People—tired students, red-eyed lecturers, they didn’t exist;
regular situations became stimuli for a stagnant comatose: why?

No answers formed, except that three days later a person could be a week away,
anywhere—abroad, nothing to do, only to read titles and books which please.

Yet we all sat watching that clock, it moved slower despite us;
now, it would have to stay indoors and assess classrooms of empty chairs.

Scholars and administration would hopefully be in Spring air, taking it in,
with a cold beer in hand and tender sunrays on their back;

minds would exist as empty—blank slates, to pen a tale—an experience,
with no thoughts of what was left sitting behind, with not a hint of rigor.

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