A room full of Artists standing high in watch,
One opens wide a mouth, exit words of thought,
An occurrence of perfect* art, too unmeasurably so;
Those in the crowd would attempt not to know.
A room full of Artists standing high in watch,
There is a lecture coming aloud from the local radio,
As a slab of raw meat sits red on a kitchen countertop,
And hard words attempt to cause cutting glances,
Only stirring those with argumentative proclamations;
Two pieces of toast are burning in a dusty toaster,
While the sun’s white rays angle along a windowsill,
Taking note as my hand goes numb with the heavy pen,
Arrhythmic palpitations, these sensations of surprise;
Our domestic grey cat licks herself on the made bed,
Shoes cover feet from the stones sitting on the floor,
As socks come wet within, toes sweating at warmth;
Dried plants stand tall from the wooden tongues up;
A chair, rigid, and a couch, soft, are waiting too,
On this cold coffee morning, the taste is so strong
Of sweet outdated milk, bleeding steak, eggs, and onions-
Pieced are parts which come at present just to pass thru.
If people “know” more than
they have experienced
you trust what
When a mouthful becomes a drain of
coffee, truth, and kale sluice through;
few mountains of Western sky-range,
Slowly appear in mirror’s rearview.
And the meek Auntie of white snow,
and the silly Uncle in his high castle,
don’t want you to attempt to “know”,
they couldn’t afford your little hassle.
Keep hope on that star-crossed day
when your father comes back to say:
new Widow has stolen my lifeblood,
as to set kith & kin at once estranged.
only hard fate;
this is your life,
so why wait?
Downtown Minneapolis by way of Nicollet, by way of bike, by way of bus, by way of foot; the puzzle pieces which we’ve put in
On one sunny Saturday,
Through Nicollet on two wheels,
Over the Central avenue bridge
Above the Mississippi unclean—
Ahead along this busy way
Skyscrapers jutted through fog,
Vehicles slid moving quickly past
On pale snowmelt roads—
Downtown became a beautiful trap
For tourists and newsstands,
Dirty buses carried riders:
The working and the unengaged—
Fed pigeons saunter the ground low,
As artistic homeless flew their signs,
People wore designer sunglasses
Lest the sun blind their eyes—
And they layered in light bundles,
Standing heavy in their packs,
Slung purses, scarves, and rucksacks,
Watching cautious, avoiding attack—
Mirrored window reflections
Caught the lights of fire engines,
Ambulance flashes and sounding sirens
Made attentive onlookers stare—
Groups walked by to restaurants
So some could sit and sip a beer,
Others ate a late hungover breakfast
Watching soccer, giving cheers—
And I with my family went,
For the Foshay stood in the sky,
Stepping on lively marble stone
We viewed and passed the time—
Breaking at each stop light met
Cross traffic moved in front,
Bits of the city puzzle fell out;
For new hands to put them back—
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.
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.
Crickets wake me in the morning,
Even in the middle of white winter.
They chirp and buzz and shake
And vibrate and annoy and call-
Moments later my partner is slapping
Them hard to death, they die direct, -fast.
The next morning they come back to
Life as if nothing has happened at all.