Posts tagged ‘reality’

April 1, 2015

Poetry Workshop, Senior Seminar

He sat as we tore him to pieces,
limb by limb; every sentence sound, lost thought, and errant period
became our subject, our purpose to change.

Critical words and suggested alterations sliced deep,
a pain was scribed on his taut winced mien, perspired.

I said nothing more, no more from me.

This was where their sticks and stones became surgical instruments, their say on his say, tools which cut to, with their subjective opines on art, on personality, on poetry.

I sat and said nothing,
until words came, “…any last suggestions?”

Then I spoke: I think your piece is good.

March 31, 2015

Right/Wrong

Some wrong is right, some right is wrong;
the only matter is who sings the song.

March 25, 2015

half made up

Half of my person,
my body,

my ghost, my own;

though you are outside in the
cold,

wind through bare trees blown—

near thoughts in the mind—full,
on edge a clear glass of water in

my saliva, in my throat,

as each word

from my mouth is spoke—

half of me yet all,
and gone, not long,

—as they go,

dissolve, a division in sight…

Happened, half-dead, I am froze;

all is night,

…and only half of something,

hair, eyes, flesh, hands, and plight.

The makeup of my life,

When I was younger sunlight seemed more bright.

Split now.

***

Wind chimes resound outside in the cold,
as you whisper this to my better half.

March 24, 2015

forgotten change

A monoculture of plants
in a field
offers a species fading—

a group of homogeneous acts
between skyscrapers
offers a…

well,

you get the point.

***

Now,

I must have stepped onto the bus
and forgotten my change.

Can I borrow from you?

March 23, 2015

we are the same

You, me; us we—forward or backward,
together we are the same.

Parts of a carnal body, whole—
built of dust, thoughts, and air;
no scar is without a measure,
no action still unmoved,
shell of human being outside,
ghost of us within.

We are compelling a kind,
eyes peer to see;
from Franklin and Nicollet to NE,
Middle America to Middle East.

Still, forward or backward, we are the same.

March 22, 2015

Perfect Artist

Sharing small town concepts,
language, in hopes to pave a path;

at a bar stool conversation,
after an empty whisky shot throat-sting,
as beer bubbles trace a 1/3 full pint glass.

One local could move forward with art,
or make it easy—take a step back.

Laugh , and seize the moment…
I think about it…
I say: but the proof is only if it kills you,
your art,
Bukowski said that,
I sort of believe the man.

We are not perfect artists, really—no one is,
the evidence is: we are still alive, mostly.

See: I’ve been to a few funerals;
I know the end of my story will be
surrounded by a shovel, dirt, words, and a box.

Then, a man I don’t know will tell others about me.

There’s advertising.

(The real artist is the priest who doesn’t know you acting like he does,
he swears to god. You were good, though god doesn’t understand death.)

Then, no more art will come out of you,
but they will hear it.

That is the perfect artist and art.
That is the truth, perhaps.

March 21, 2015

Out of Dodge, 52 South to La Crescent

There are pieces to account for
while getting out of Dodge,
on a Friday eve, away from the city—
on the mind of those,

sat in an aged black truck on edgy burnt-out energy;
a person can purchase a mass of pink-violet
spectacle taking over western skies,

glorious sunset in tired eyes,
painting cloaked-clouds,
heavy dark, invoking peering pupils.

That giant burning orb,
light-years away,
is sinking into a foreland field,

browned is a Minnesota plain’s silhouette to come,
spotted with tail-lights
and oncoming forgotten brights;

before cars snaked out of the city
on veined webs of pavement,
onto highway 35,

which roller-coastered up and down,
thru and around,

wheels traversed crude potholes
and bad drivers—ones inciting rage,
to 52 South, to less ego.

And in the cockpit:
a cracked window,
a rear-view gaze,
changing bootlegged CDs,
and easy conversation.

The journey goes:
follow the lines to-,
follow the lights to-,
follow the signs to-,

each less visible moment passing,
each shadowed monument dusted;
stop here, stop there, no stops at all…
Make time.
Make tracks.
Make it back.

under shrouded moon above,
each sparsely laden gas station,
each pre-ghost town affixed—

to Rochester, by Rushford,
past Winona and Houston,
fast 73mph, thru Nodine—

establishments wax a dimly lit yellow,
down a long hill stretch to 14 61,

along hulks of vibrant-by-day bluffs,
past looming Lock and Dam No 7,

along the sounding Mississippi,
waters show streetlamps caught in the flow, luminescent,

and we go into town,
La Crescent, past the Hub
to Apple Village Liquors,
then to home.

There,
a warm room,
my smiling family,
and hugs await.

Pieces of what’s become
getting out of Dodge.

***

A good aspect of the city
can be getting out of it.

March 20, 2015

Interactive Image (you and me)

Sometimes great minds think alike, think local,
some don’t think at all.

I have to put on deodorant today
in order to become an average human being.

All the while a naked spoon holds a naked cherry in the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden;
now that’s art, now that’s smart, now that’s in a park.

And then we have the Thought Police to condemn what,
to patrol what,
to portray what,
to convey what message?

IDK

How things have happened,
evolution is real.

No one single person is JC or PC or perfectly-,
we just are—you and me.

Categorizing and “knowing” is impossible without error.

See,
labeling those into groups would be easy,
yet we place with sedimented phrases, universal,
adding variance to that idea, disparaging,
then spreading like disease,
ones with history—you and me.

There is no describing,
living is art.

March 18, 2015

Local Imaginaries

Observe the scattered common stones of these Twin Cities,
dusting sidewalks crumbled—ubiquitous,
taken in hand at foot, and thrown to,
from a bridge’s span above fast flowing currents of the Mississippi below.

Here flies to splash an artistry tangible,
before honest spoken words,
a sharp tone in tender ears,
which is contrast to what’s pictured:

Seen drawn lines,
Seen paintings bright,
Seen music made,
Seen night life.

Though observe them,
they are outside, heads aloft in thick-clouded dreams,
banded, mouths in perpetual motion,
hands seldom untied,
broken parts of stone—
proof over talking about the scene you’ve seen.

How those stones have accrued.

***

Some things get overlooked,
some things get stepped on;
other things get talked about profusely;
What of art does one hear?

March 15, 2015

A Sleepy Sunday in Thunder Bay

Snow fortresses wall vacant early Spring streets,
under a shadowed loom of port buildings and storefronts,
near silt, stone, and trash;

a bay city industry,
north in a blanket of cold, under veiled clouds,
welcoming those coming through,
as Lake Superior holds puzzle-pieced ice in the fore,
central view a downhill road.

And on culture, are you Finnish yet?

Exchange rates and customs await;
crossing lines, affecting time;
to transcend this border
is to travel into the future.

On one side you are 5pm on the other you are 6.
Bonjour!

Coordinates do not matter,
to warmer unfamiliar dwellings after a night under stars,
in conifer and winter’s accumulation.

Now, here waitresses speak of our home,
and her visit—of the Twin Cities,
mentioning the food,
the night life,
the scene,
and how here is better in the next season.

We are visiting Thunder Bay,
with cats and coffee,
at an evident reader and traveler’s house on a sleepy Sunday.

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