And I thought about organized religion
And I thought about government control
And I thought about the power of money,
And all of these thoughts concerned me.
Why they did, I do not know.
Why they did, I do not know.
Free Local Midwestern Poetry, By Terry Scott Niebeling
Some transcendental thought
about my present situation:
O’ angst, O’ cigarettes, O’ beer,
O’ my identity, O’ job, O’ rent,
O’ apparent unique awareness
in a bubble, misconstrued,
and lain out before you, spread
and you judge ME, i the same.
How sad. I am a poet, I tell the world,
though I never write. Listen! I am a painter,
though I never paint a picture, how sad. See!
Everyone is the same in this tiny city,
where is little progress? Where is change?
Who cares? Who doesn’t make hip-hop,
who isn’t in a band, who doesn’t make art,
who doesn’t have a bad or good day?
I’ll throw some big words (effect)
in the mix to make it more modern, more real,
here you go: lithe, sinewy, post-structuralism
puissant, Midwesterner, Mississippi,
oh, i am sorry, that ending was pat.
here are some interesting and semi-ironic ideas,
and everyone talks about it.
they were never heard before, but they were!
My best friends are editors and I am a solicited writer.
I have paid the price, which is time and titles.
My contemporaries all think I am the best,
we are very close to one another,
they name drop me because I am a genius.
Come to my seminar, my summit!
Let me read for you, to you…
So. Fucking. Slow. I am god. My thick frames
and tweed jacket match my skinny jeans
and my leather shoes. Now, I have
one question: Who the fuck are you?
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.
the space within a backpack
heavy and overpriced textbooks
cheap ripened bananas,
next to each
They tell a tale of economics and lifestyle…
I go along Coffman Memorial Union,
the pricey disaster
In a tight vanilla pale room
with a tangerine sunset view,
where high association
shared big words
and accomplishments tacitly,
wink to a nod,
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,
lines and verses and words;
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.
A monoculture of plants
in a field
offers a species fading—
a group of homogeneous acts
you get the point.
I must have stepped onto the bus
and forgotten my change.
Can I borrow from you?
Night black as Bakken
oil, which malignly pours past silent
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,
rock snow-crust, cold as a
flushed-toilet shower’s mist—you know; everything
is connected, retraced, unplugged,
tubed, tied, aborted,
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
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.
American Consumerist Party:
Greased commercials and ads-
Flash fast on the television screen;
As pupils contract and expand.