Posts tagged ‘reality’

June 30, 2015

unknown variables

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.

June 24, 2015

Adjusted Advantage

The world can seem so small
when assessed from the confines
of a one bedroom apartment.
A space tight, sticky, stuffy,
and near unbearably drab.
For a person to go outside and look,
to see all there is to see—to expand the expanse,
to imagine what one might attain
in the span of a lifetime,
at the change of a thought,
on the prospect of a whim, at the drop of a dime.
A perspective can be released
from its rigid boxy cage to stretch sore wings
and to grasp the once unthinkable,
for merely a chance thought,
and for adjusted sight, mercy!

June 22, 2015

St. Anthony Waste

Sour leather bands synched
in a veiled humidity,
swam this Midwestern oven,
doggy paddle for fluid strokes.
Rolled windows on St. Anthony
caught a trash truck soup
of faintly fanned aroma sweet
under parted clouds;
cloy cutting, putrid, pungent,
unforgettably at the tip of your tongue,
in the holes of your nose.
Fumes came from plastic bags ripped
and cardboard boxes smashed
telling of domestic unimagineables,
making way to the forefront,
aggressively introduced,
and not leaving soon.
Remnants pressing,
pushing through the city;
parts of me, parts of you—
the powers of summer heat sparked
a sickening knotted perfume,
lingering in the air,
in these communities tight knit.

June 21, 2015

Rachel Dolezal is also a Person

Homosexual
Straight
Transgender
Transrace

A person can relate
Through whatever debate
With:
“I love you”.

***

Always,
Some can’t while others can.

June 19, 2015

A Moment Mid-Commute

Slowing my advance
the smell of fresh dew
on bending grass,
deeply rich, as pubic loin,
naturally beaded,
morning fruit,
coming up into me.

Passing chance is a pedestrian
at another drink,
to sup, to taste—to figure:
the luck.

Beyond what affords
the wires and cords,
the libations of vibrations—in pocket and lapel;
consorts of sorts:
eyes to see to tell,
caught in a room, in a shell.

Here it is running between sharp teeth,
between punch in and punch out,
the texture expands on the tip of tense tongue,
to drown the drain
in the welcome back of a dry desert throat,
where we once spoke.

Yesterday’s sun had taken all proof
of what there was to own:
the house, the car, the student loans, the mobile phone.

Every drop of hydration
was taken from placement.

And then that orb went away
with the dying day,
to blackest night,
to come back and drop what it lacked,
to give what it had taken away.

These globules,
these droplets of life,
here on fine grass, stay,
for all to gleam as they pass.

Seeing yard for a blade.
Seeing hours for a wait.
Bearing witness to its presence,
to this small existence, to little menace.

Taken its smell,
dew on these forms,
forms on this ball,
lit up by yellow orb,
spinning, rolling, coming down,
into finite points,
magnified and reflected,
encapsulating each particle universal,
directly into you.

A most minute sense,
and worldly.

To think,
it was almost unbearable
to enter that building
on this day.

June 16, 2015

Remember?

In the cistern of my mind
live water’s beckon thought;
is it the past or a dream—
the difference, I can’t tell.

June 11, 2015

you look like you got some sun

One of my favorite phrases to hear on Monday is,
“Oh, you got a bit of sun over the weekend…”
The idea of going outside and sitting in the sun
without buildings, without work, without people,
without being stuck in-doors, without a thing to do,
without being paraded around like a fool at a party,
without the constraints of what society deems correct:
you should wear sunscreen, you should cover up!
you should avoid a sunburn—it will cause cancer!
I have to assume that people die of accidents daily.
You should avoid cigarettes, and expensive scotch,
and domestic beers, and fishing, and jerking off,
and relaxing for no reason, and not doing anything,
and cooking raw red meat, and frying fillets of fish,
and reading a book, or two, and driving an old truck,
and thinking about sexual fantasies, or debauchery.
Yeah, you should probably avoid all of those fun things,
and while you’re at it, make sure to hide from the sun.
Nah. I want to say, “You didn’t get any sun at all?
That’s great, I am sorry to hear you are a shut-in.”
But rather to save some time, I just say, “Yeah.”

June 2, 2015

At the Back of Hodson Hall

At the enormous back windows of Hodson Hall, looking east towards Falcon Heights’ standing homes, over an expanse of grooved fields—carefully worked, a person can gleam breaking light caught on cement sidewalks, red bricked structures, and shined square glass low in the early day haze.

Outside seagulls float, calling, in caressing morning brilliance at you, asking “caw?”

What does that mean??? I wonder.

Their questions as ambivalent as a cloud’s shape and meaning to curious children…

I wondered, how did they get here, there is no sea in Minnesota (smh).

These worldly reflections begged, knocked, and retained sharp attention of waking eyes, pupils pulled tight at the warming occurrence, such nature for a sparking mind to ponder, as if synapse was crackling, as if creation was tore in two.

Supple ears held the bird’s sound in their netted web of up and down—their inquiry, as they danced, above, gliding, laughing high pitched at you.

Only to stand and watch, only inside what is inside.

The sun had begun its orbital voyage, those with white feathers and all life in tow, infinite unending, and all the connections of connections exposed.

It paint as an artist’s brush over lands, trees and grass, overhead, above polo shirts and homeless ragged men, showing.

Leaving for a moment its mark; then as fleeting as it appears it vanishes to dark.

The warmth was there to stay—so ephemeral, as a Mayfly’s life, in a moment’s hesitation lost; shadows draw long in the absence, as flowers quick bend their praise.

A day we have, then not.
It is here, then it is gone.

This colorful set constantly changing, to the chagrin of progress, to the luck of fickle nature, and to the impromptu dialogue of the local theatre company.

Another tomorrow awaits at the end of coming dusk, with quizzical seagulls, with fascist sunlight, with worldly reflections in tow, with fired synapse and buttoned polos and people begging for change, anything you could spare will do, until they take their bow.

And the light caught it all at the back of Hodson Hall.

(End Scene.)

May 31, 2015

A Media Inspired Solution to Everything (Modern Movements)

A pair of eyes stare at the “problem”.
A single mind labels, calculates, and retains.
A pair of hands do nothing for meaningful progress.
Another group of “activists” yell: change!, change!, change!

May 28, 2015

Warhol

The gallery
of
unmade artwork
in your head
will
be forever closed
on the advent
of
your death.

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