Posts tagged ‘mpls’

May 24, 2015

Touched by Sweetness

Having impregnated
a mind
of pulsating flowers;
touched by sweetness
they stir,
coming in
at full bloom.

May 22, 2015

The Miracle of You

That great idea sparkled,
imagining a self that is beyond oneself,
though alike all others,
but different.

Where breathing air is a miracle
of filling a mass, and seeing for sight
a mechanism viewed, not closely near to being understood,
nor recreated.

And flesh and bone, a false creationism,
one of God, of man—of both alike;
the muse so exactly measured,
so detailed and defined and primed.

To discuss it would be off topic.
So, let’s cut to the chase.
Realism in truth, no “isms” could deduce it
to reasons or plainness, or a way to prove it in ways.

There is nothing and everything all at once, just waiting, just waking,
and this time it is just you who steps out of the front door to go.

Au revoir

May 21, 2015

Pre-Open Mic on Nicollet Avenue

Streetlamps poured
a waxen yellow glow on the Nicollet Avenue scene below,
as above heavens danced and sparked white
as now onlookers stood and watched.

The hum of vehicular masses turned to a city of cratered paths,
while people were lit as props, good and evil,
coming and going about their static business.

This nature in society, framed, isolated—what we have;
metal grasps of synthetic hands
coming to and shaping us,
to make up our wake up, to shake up our trust.

Bleeding oil, exhausting fumes,
killing cows, and loud preaching fools;

we exist as a populous,
with meaningful purpose, and American sentimentalism.

Illuminated here by streetlamp’s waxen yellow glow, on Nicollet,
under heavens about to open wet,
mingling with ghosts of our yesterday,
with whole cultures of churches and states to thank.

Amen.

May 20, 2015

The Cat and The Squirrel (55414)

The backyard squirrel foraged
Rolling through a thick grass,
Rubbing its underside on dirt,
Thin belly in a thin brown fur,
Moving thru sniffing, bobbing.
The cat watched from the sill,
On a makeshift dresser drawer,
Eyes darted at every twitch made,
At every moment of food found.
The two were close, intermingled,
Not viewing each other though,
Just seeing themselves different,
Obscured by a dripping window,
Staring at what could’ve been.

May 13, 2015

Gargoyles of Folwell Hall

They sit high up over a vast campus backdrop watching
at those who pass fleeting along University Avenue.
Pillars which appear countless from a single sidewalk vantage
stand at the building’s edge proudly displayed.
Above the intensely ornate deco of Folwell Hall—rich education,
crimson and beige; their solid mouths gape, their eyes a dull marble
gaze at the coming and goings of those on foot.
Connecters roll along packed with transferring scholars,
people stand in peaceful commotion as bikes move fluidly
by in quick motion while the ground gathers unwrapped debris.
These statues hulk through the evening into night, fixed,
unmoved in necessary seasons, unmoved in climes and times.
When there is light the rays never escape them,
true, they never tire no matter the pitch darkness surrounding.
Hard fixtures as they loom, pressing, and they are rigidly forlorn,
above acutely exact academics, loose agendas, and airy aspirations.
A straight-line wind couldn’t take them down, gargoyles of the precipice.
Chiseled outlines grotesque, watching, in swirling noonday skies.

May 10, 2015

It was Highland in a Nutshell

It was wet cans of PBR from a Coleman cooler
and pulls of Bulleit whisky warm
on a Friday night.

It was green Jalapeño poppers wrapped in fatty bacon
next to glistening short-cut rib rows
in a twilight kitchen.

It was pickup trucks frolicking in rusted skirts
over deep grass fields,
while hunters gathered fungi at the midday shade.

It was alabaster ashes of last evening’s fire
smoldering, becoming ghost stale
near metal pasture gates left wide open.

It was small brown trout caught in cold streams
bleeding, below an Amherst hillside
melting in the last light of a springtime Saturday.

It was Driftless region bluff’s strong straight-wind
carrying Johnny Cash’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down”
into folding valleys asunder from a driver’s side window.

It was a weekend’s mosaic of moments,
laced in and strung up together,
of oscillating seconds and intrinsic perspective.

Oh, it was…

May 6, 2015

I used to live here, Whittier South

And those injured and suffering went along
Carrying bandaged faith and sore teeth,
smelling of sour mashed sweat,
rubbing tender eyes,

as empty cans and bottles littered
the Whittier South yard where they sauntered.

Harmless props save for the thought.
It was a weekend to remember forgotten.

Sunlight carried split-skull interactions,
churned ladles in their tender stomachs.

If only these plastic chairs could talk they would be perfect witnesses,
chucked into red-ash fire
at the utterance of a word.

Feet kicked aluminum to metal sound,
and “see over there—there’s the compost.”

Now, can I have a beer?
Can I have a piss?

May 4, 2015

We all fall apart

beautifully,
as an old house with crying floorboards in the night
and a consistent leaky sink by day,

our skin becomes bagged and heavy,
sun-splotched, dripping,
and as malleable as putty.

The flaws emboldened—highlighted unique;
the scarring acne,
the rounded blister,
the wine-red blemish__

All beautiful characteristics,
endearing individuality to wear at the fore;
taken by some as unwanted gifts,
to hide with powdered veneer.

We all fall apart beautifully,
as tight constraints surrounding
fast loosened chains
with our appreciative perspectives,
on “I”, on “me”.

We all fall apart beautifully.

The eye of the beholder grasps us at a midmorning mirror,
as an instant fickle judgement flees,
assessment to be critically free of our character.

There is only too much time to critique.
And why waste a seventy degree day?

May 1, 2015

Difference

a day, a day,
to
wake
and
maintain.

a day, a day,
cash
coffee
conversation,
culture contained.

a day, a day,
one
is
never
the same.

a day, a day
where’s
my
change?

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