Posts tagged ‘Poetry’

February 10, 2016

To Nicollet for a Tailored Suit in the Cold

Smartphone weather predictions
established as the standing Foshay,
and you could be downtown with it,
yeah, you could walk all the way.

February 7, 2016

Too many is never enough (You’re Not Alone)

It’d be a shame to not realize…

this breakfast has more passion,
my tongue has more taste;
the bold world we now live in,
everyone’s got something to say.

Oh, you’re also a local writer?
Oh, you write about injustices too?
See, I want something truly novel,
I really want something new.

And what about the morning coffee?

February 6, 2016

fir st age mu sic

is it
od
d
that
clas-
sical
music
ca-me
be
fore
every
thing
else?

shoul
dn’t
it be
cal
led
experi
mental
mus
ic… ?

first
age
sound.

February 3, 2016

The Groundhog Day Blizzard

was stuck inside an office
checking local news for
hourly traffic reports and
telling the folks to go home
hopefully before five.

It was natural driving a truck,
and where does one exert so
much energy walking places,
and when else is everything
in view majestic as fuck?

I commend the bus drivers
and bike delivery workers
just out there doing their jobs,
just out there commuting, so
that others don’t have to.

More, were the processions
of landlords clearing paths,
and motorized snow removal
machines doing a dance;
how slick ways faired.

It really is like this no place
else, a bleak sheet filtered
the sight of once open walks
roads and schoolyard parks
muted and muffled by white.

Just the thought of it,
this is why we live here.

January 30, 2016

when someone dies, you know

vivid
energetic
life,

to a
faded
bag
of effervescent
flesh,

inanimate
void,

a torn
latex glove,

a sack
seeped through.

bone
meal.

iron.

film.

i am here
right now.

i am
fading.

January 29, 2016

ASU

my penis
creates
a stream
between
me and the
toilet
seat.

i day
dream
about
sleeping
while
awake.

american
animal
wants to
destroy
anything
and
everything.

speaking
to
starving
artists
is the
sacrificial
lamb.

and the
poor
have to
pay their
bills,
always.

and
various
shades
don’t
matter
at tax
time.

and it
came
and went
like
bad trends,
good
intentions,
useless
politics,
and
Friday
beer.

and the
title
spelled
backwards
is where
i live.

and the
title
spelled
backwards
is
here.

January 27, 2016

Driving to Work

in the mornings
before i drove
to work
i used to
listen to the
traffic report
on the radio
and laugh.

i had this idea
that it didn’t
effect me,
that i was
so far above
this kind
of busy commute.

now it does.
in my capsule
i sit, watching
attentive, close,
as i never
wanted to.

i drive with
conviction, i go
at each turn.
i know what it
is like to worry,
to be considered
a shark.

biking was never
this way, it was
i who needed
to watch over
my shoulder;
now i must see
and assess
everything.

i must do the
impossible,
i must be constant,
aware, and
one hundred
percent,
always.

a bus would
be nice,
biking in winter
now isn’t
realistic,
the truck is
what i have
to go to,
this luxury.

the radio tells
it straight,
“side roads
are slow and go…”
i used to laugh,
now i sweat;
i used to cry,
now i mumble.

the pleasure of driving,
and they don’t
even attempt at
calling
the stress.

the pleasure
is all of
mine.

January 25, 2016

tragic animals (true art)

the imperfections
make the
human being,

by nature we
are flawed;

so, love me
for all
my stupidity
and challenges,

as we are
animals of
a similar kind.

***

the 35W bridge
fell on a
swift August day
during
rush hour traffic,

in its
modern marvel,
in a humid haze.

the stone arch
bridge stands
square beige still,

just so, guiding
past and present
to the
city center scene.

January 23, 2016

awake: the play

A poet writes in SE Minneapolis about the trials and tribulations of a Friday night gone mildly awry. He is surrounded by the cat’s meow, a blowing electrical heater, and the buzz of a refrigerator standing in a near vacant kitchen. The sky is overcast mute through slitted shades. He broods in his mildly sarcastic Minnesotan fashion, feeling the pains of last night’s waste while coming to terms with how his workouts aren’t working out. And nothing happens…

scene 1:
to wake in uptown
fully clothed and hot,
recounting bad
pajamas and enough
beer to consume
an entire Heggies pizza.

(and people starve abroad,
and others win
the lottery at home, and he
still tries.)

here,
i’d rather see myself
in Beat coffeehouse
having conversation

about
cutting ties with
negatives, and always
smiling through the shit,

and elaborate schemes…

i’d rather be
confused and
frightened,
than comfortable
in the same
old place.

*
certain days you wake
up away, and certain days
you don’t wake up at all.

*

monologue:
but i won’t wait,
why, why sit back
at the theatre
and watch the
other performers
take what they will?

(all life is
performance art;

even the
bathroom is
theatre.)

monologue 2:
no, it was a nice way
to wake up, in the dark
on the phone with love

at five am,
to need water,
to set the alarm,
to find my glasses to
see it all perfectly
clear in grey light.

(the cold was there
waiting for him just
as it was the night
before, and he went to it.)

scene 2:
i just found myself
at the darkest place before
i came back home
huffing on a cold bike,

and someone at the open
mic knew my name,

still all the words for
the poem were lost
in alcohol and water,
in laughs and sighs.

they snapped at the wrong
parts and guffawed
at pigment jokes;

i guess pink is a funny color.

scene 3:
so, sitting over
simple english and
talking academia
with coffee on my breath

i found the song
i had searched months
for and wrote it down
with my blog link
shamelessly on the back of
someone else’s ephemera,

then i stuck it to a blackboard
and biked with thin layers
from south to north,

to home to shower,
to think i think.

this is where you can find me.
awake.

FIN

January 20, 2016

“Culprit: Snow” -On The Radio

We learn fast, as seasonal
delay strikes + the bitter
cold becomes bitter cold,
that even an inch of white
matters, even Minnesotans
can’t handle these roads.

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