January 23, 2015
The city center has
Been filled with
These spots to grab attention,
To make you buy: react.
Local rags remain,
Good at that, and intact.
What stands out is
The importance they lack.
We have books by the stack,
And bike paths.
We have beaches
In the summer months to relax,
And theatres like
The Guthrie to see acts.
Local mags don’t really map that;
-With photos, lists, and ads.
Painting a picture without paving a path,
They write on setting precedent, because they can’t.
I suppose one day I will be surprised when an article proves friendly to my eyes.
But only after realizing how much effort was put into marketing to my demographic.
December 25, 2014
First alarms sounded of a white snowy morning. Heavy and wet, flakes covered the ground as those in the river were covered by water, never to come home again. Fast late last year turns to right now present; and years, and sorted experience before. It came out like a pocket knife to test, to screw, to cut once, deep. It was the kind sharpened to a fine edge. Dead bones rested below, and in the back of one’s mind. People came and went; flesh loosened, darkened, slackened, and dusted with age back to dirt. Blades of toy windmills caught the grey air, while leaves fell zigzag to the browned December ground. We just ran by. Air brakes of a semi sounded off far on a distant highway, for those who traveled about the countryside, between the bluffs, near the riverbed; all to hear, all to unite in this one thought, some time, some date, in one mind. Ubiquitous green trees once loomed watching over this tiny town, Apple Capital, providing breath, under thick blankets of sepia cloud; brisk and cool in winter light, it moved through valleys touching rock, touching sand, touching faces, creating must and dew, on bark, and Fall’s fodder, on all who caught a glimpse. Each little speck floated soundless, seeming endlessly to the darkened pavement, as eyes took to more than they could unpack.
December 19, 2014
Caught in the action;
Kept taut on a rope.
December 18, 2014
Are you at work?
Are you really sick?
If it is so,
I’ll help you with this.
You don’t feel well,
You feel pretty bad,
I’ll call your business,
The results are back.
May I speak to the boss?
Is ______ in right now?!
Well, let me tell you
They must leave town.
It doesn’t look good,
They’ve tested absolutely sick.
I’m Doctor Terry,
I’ll attest to this.
They should be released,
Purpose: to get better;
Especially in this perfect,
Warm, sunny weather.
Telling it to them straight,
So you can leave work-
It’s worth it to go,
Get from life its full worth.
Trapped in a cubicle walls seeming beautiful;
The wonders are outside, if the truth be told.
December 16, 2014
Fleeting acquaintance which grew like trash
As each fickle feigned word exchange passed,
Few thoughts ring true while coming through
Comprise this changing layered bunch of you.
December 12, 2014
Thoughts of reading a text by *S. Heaney,
Bits and pieces of dewed Madrid,
With heavy inflections of Hemingway,
Scattered about within. Bull horns
And drink, and women, and sex. Smell
Of skin, fish parts, and molded excrement.
Emitting and emoting the pawing presence
Of death; Protestant and Catholic,
Rebellions over said claims.
There the air held hot, as one without water,
Lacking, in a vast desert, as a drunk’s hung-over
Morning plight, -head-spin, praying for the noise to fast die,
Lavishing in Great Lakes of the mind.
He spoke of letting it go, as in
Sobering up, as in really feeling this event.
He had been fearing the gun holster
And lack of action in present. Admiring the man
Who hand-gripped the cold barrel steel, afraid to notice.
But all those bleeding bulls, and fish debris, and local
Women, and spent shells counted. Dripping their sweetness
On his fingertips, wet, as the spilt thick
Ink of his pen. Language of stink
And movement. Surely he felt a bit
Satisfied as he sipped a beaded glass of beer
In the city center, in the summer, 1969,
In Madrid, as he wrote his free-verse prose. As he
Let his words come alive and go.
*Singing School (Summer 1969), BY SEAMUS HEANEY
December 10, 2014
I remember when words had meaning;
A man was only as good as his word.
I thought about this over a conversation,
As my partner’s words were never heard.
December 9, 2014
Angered to enraged,
Exits to exist.
Same to same;
List to list.