Posts tagged ‘Spoken Word’

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 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.

February 26, 2015

Bakken through Minneapolis

Night black as Bakken
oil, which malignly pours past silent
communities,

shipped in cryptic-marked tanker cars
under cover of darkness, rightly
so, they move obtusely opaque—

opposite downtown lights which stick to a wetted haze
in the distance, making this Midwest city glow
for miles—some say 150 of them away.

The shit we’ve seen, and haven’t.

That which creeps along can be found in a jet, in
a car, or on foot,

in hardened
rock snow-crust, cold as a
flushed-toilet shower’s mist—you know; everything
is connected, retraced, unplugged,
tubed, tied, aborted,
and rewind.

Truths for lies:
This is safe,
This is fact,
This in fact is safe,
We care about you.

It is snug-up, or snug-down, or
just snug enough, or caught in between comfortable,
and I can’t go outside,
I have to decide.

Then it is: A pub visit, a flipped
switch, a lit door in the distance—these
palm trees have become foreigners
in desert sands which have turned to mud
by native rain power in your very living room
by way of: your very hand;

the vessel you hold,
repurposed from some ornate
decoration, from some ornate
description, from so-and-so’s ornate party,
or from some ornate magazine—ornate parts
of these

-Cult clubs.

And that is life:
black as night as petro ships by, as exhaust fumes fly,
as exhausted you sleeps, you snore, you don’t think;
as an “elected” official’s bank account goes cha-ching,
as a CEO draws outside of the lines, and talks energy.

(of course we need)

as the air goes in and out
of his mouth,
and in and out,
and in and out—

Like fucking, really.
Hey, you thought it. :)

Humans without a care,
they are there happily unawares.

With smiles on their dreaming faces,
as that napalm tube rolls on steel wheels in their backyards.

February 25, 2015

Free Me

Blood for ink,
the page for flesh,
and few words for character
description;

their imprint does stain,
the pinprick storyline
of a feeling—

I would sit and count
for minutes,
hours,
days,
months,
years,
etc.

but sitting is not conducive
to good movement, patience does nothing
except waste time
and progress
and dull the mind…

They may say: relax, let it pass.

that time; what could be
a particular goal seen to fruition.

Those who hold the ties that bind,
the keys we need,
are working steadily behind my
eyes,

the nerve—these nerves,
and more; each synapsis connects to
the message passed,

this circuit board commanding:

a knee jerk,
a hand slap,
an orgasm,
twitching muscles going to
bed—as you rock to zzzzzzzzzz.

Found out in between,
no verse to discuss,
no song to critique,

just the rigid clock’s tick,
and those who run by it (and from it):

they tell us what to do—
how to eat sleep and breath—
where to be, what to wear, how to look,
when and where—
there—and how to see.

Now who tells you how to be?

February 20, 2015

Make Everything

Make
everything in
life,

But
excuses.

December 10, 2014

Conversation’s Plight

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.

November 3, 2014

Words to Action

Ripping down a sign
Out of angst and pure passion;
Having changed a mind,
Put meaningful words to action.

September 13, 2014

Ruled by Cats

Dust management,

scoop,

Lid removed;

Stench to prove-

Ammonia and hardened poop.

This moment,

What it is.

No king cleans out cat shit.

In the air hangs

remnants of digested remains.

Eyes pained

Hands to rearrange

Next to the toilet stool

What a silly fool

To be a cat;

To actually rule.

July 25, 2014

Stream-of-Conscience Free-Writing on Positive

Laugh at yourself more.
Make alternate plans.
Stop speaking in arguments.
Get out while you can.
Eclipse those bold around you.
Expand your mind like desert sand.
Excuse the ill-hearted.
Lie in the sun, get tan.
Be realistic less.
Find happiness more.
Search out your inner Self;
caress and appreciate its core.
Be happy for what you have.
Never attempt to settle the score;
forgive and forget-
because what’s life for?
Realize you are always wrong,
even if you “know” you are right.
Become a better person,
this can happen over night
Be the nicest human being,
not some stuck-up snob.
Tell the government to end wars,
by dropping photo-bombs.
Shake hands with strangers,
meet your new friends.
In the end there is nothing to lose,
so start a new trend.
Open your eyes to adversity.
direct those who can’t.
Try the best to be yourself.
Try your best to understand.
Always exercise patience.
Always exercise. Period.
Never stop learning and reading.
Never stop being weird my friend.
Today is right now.
Yesterday is gone.
Listen to sweet birds singing your song.
Rainbows happen in storms.
Sun is better when it rains.
How good do you feel?
For that you can thank pain.
Understand there is no certainty,
from one moment to the next.
So do everything you can,
be passionate- do your best.

July 13, 2014

Sociopolitical

Sociopolitical,
as lipstick and licorice;
kiss with the tongue,
hard feelings then diminish.

We won’t mention that again.

She said she’s always fine,
the next week she died.

I have the text to prove it.

-Found her along a country roadside
with holes and blood and mud.
The Sunday newspaper said it as
a matter of fact- Just. Like. That.

We had this one class together…
-Fremdsprachen, Deutsch.

Who writes that shit anyway?
It can’t be real-

Those papers…

A life that lacks is labeled as that.
A life on track is labeled as that.

Hands tied, for gosh sakes!
Bright white lines,
Coldest milk shake,
I was on Valium so I don’t remember that day- anyway.

Then the poetry reading was over…
So was everything else-

No apprehension
No hesitation.

What’s tension?
We mention:

Now-a-days,
A lifetime away,
Full of choices
Did you hear them voices?

And you thought for a walk.
And you thought for a talk.
And you made art with chalk
that did not last so long.

-Some cloudy milk transparency.

But that was all you did,
then you slept-

after the sun had left.

***

Also, danke schön Pakistan.
Story: A patron puts one hundred-dollar bills inside of the books he returns only to promote reading.

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