Time is of the essence
We have now and others don’t
The mail comes in
Heavy, in boxes
Full of books
People count on efficiency
This is now
Time never ends, but when it does
Patrons to service
Phone calls to make
Papers to print
The life, the day, the dollar, the request
Projects and process
Building this knowledge
No one regrets
Nothing to fret
Days and what we do
Define me and you
The only proof lies in a check
Electronic deposit, hardly noticed notion
Who does anyway?
This is incredibly easy to forget.
Time is of the essence
Alongside shared-living apartments
Neon-signs cluttered storefronts.
7 years ago I was more acquainted
There was so much to forget.
There was sun and snow,
Heartbreak and elation,
Sex and lies, good times;
Things called by other names, situations.
Past trees which grew
Broken glass from bottles drunks threw
Stand lampposts which haven’t moved
These quiet streets, home for rocks, sand, and dust- below shoes.
Maneuvering, wondering if the old neighbors were still alive.
Winter stuck in a basement
Bright light outside
Warm only within
-Hiding eyes behind dingy broken blinds.
Father stopped in around Christmastime
I was with a she who left like the wind.
Found in moments betting on the weather.
Trash amassed; pieces of me mixed between.
Now I ride by this old familiar place.
How did this town get so small?
How did I get so big?
She once said: biking is the best way to learn the city; Minneapolis is the biggest small town around.
walking amongst trash, others, and pigeons.
To self- no words
Same city we live in.
Spending money there and here,
Names for affluence, titles, labels, and idea appear.
Sharing air, space, and time;
Random moments in life aligned.
Yet they are hardly noticed.
Soft sun smell; triggered warm refuse
Familiar with no one close-
view the metropolitan recluse.
Having a bad day—usually
I just need to walk it off,
I’ll even sell my soul at the coffee shop
They can’t judge me if I am stuck inside
I don’t mind,
But you’ll be hard pressed finding me in uptown
Juice by morning
Beer by night
Winter take the bus
Summer take the bike
Kickball every Tuesday
Was routine as day and night
Had to cut back, and sit back
To make bucks to keep on the lights
My mind is freewheel spinning
My positive side is at start like the beginning
Nicollet Ave downtown in back of a kitchen
I learned how to deal with what I’ve been given
Poetry for Profit;
The dilettante says.
It just doesn’t happen,
It’s an illusion in the sick minded head.
Ads which have mislead.
They have a job to do:
They have to pose and fit for trends.
If you do it for monetary reasons,
You won’t genuinely achieve success.
Real artists have bled,
They don’t concern themselves with worrying about the point-spread.
People live fantasy lives all the time
Where they are famous
They are sought-after
They are “the greatest”, labeled by their closest friends.
Where they try their best to be noticed,
But no one cares in the end.
If you write to proclaim “I’m a poet”,
To get paid cash and attain lavish threads,
To fulfill a lifestyle image that’s been played-out,
In order to satiate big dreaming ego-ed heads.
I have news for you:
You could write non-stop for the rest of your life,
But writing won’t always be the hot ticket trend.
So many others have paved the way before you,
While you merely lazed lying in your comfy bed.
Try doing your passion for years and years to free your mind, to share thought, to pass the time, unnoticed.
Don’t do it for profit, never do art for profit; take a look at the masters, they lived in destitute, some unrecognized in their lifetimes for what they had accomplished.
Go, go, go-
I know people who have done more with less, they are called my relatives.
Currently my ears are to The Current:
1.) I need to do a membership drive.
2.) I need to tell you what I have to offer.
You may need me.
The someday sun guides these moments,
Skimming and scanning words for entertainment.
Dessa Darling writes of trendy folk
Sitting somewhere in Uptown
In a hyped-up exclusive dive
She frequents all the time.
Feeling somewhat deprived…
Locally famous can get you work—
Haven’t you heard?
Can one person tell us of life?
Exposing us to worth
__Describe what to like,
And what’s cool, new, and authentic! (Right?)
Mundane to old
Fresh to mold
Hot to cold
And I digress,
I do so, but
So it goes.
Who decides the content?
What did they accomplish?
A fine print promise
Only allowing what we should know;
Ads and Marketing pave the road.
Candle to the sun
Eyes attempt escape
Another torn notion
Another empty page
We read on:
We read on.
Their sales people and prospectors betray
Their photo editors have much to display
Constantly political in profitable ways
Constantly cynical; printing what pays
And we run off to a book, to a poem, to a forest, to a river,
To hear nothing but the truth.