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.
Free Local Midwestern Poetry, By Terry Scott Niebeling
Motion reflected between where you are and where you will be;
Void for a shadow where you were, ever lying in wait to reconvene.
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,
and not leaving soon.
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.
In the cistern of my mind
live water’s beckon thought;
is it the past or a dream—
the difference, I can’t tell.
Ears of creation
Heard close on actions promised,
But what of the hands?
a waxen yellow glow on the Nicollet Avenue scene below,
as above heavens danced and sparked white
as now onlookers stood and watched.
The hum of vehicular masses turned to a city of cratered paths,
while people were lit as props, good and evil,
coming and going about their static business.
This nature in society, framed, isolated—what we have;
metal grasps of synthetic hands
coming to and shaping us,
to make up our wake up, to shake up our trust.
Bleeding oil, exhausting fumes,
killing cows, and loud preaching fools;
we exist as a populous,
with meaningful purpose, and American sentimentalism.
Illuminated here by streetlamp’s waxen yellow glow, on Nicollet,
under heavens about to open wet,
mingling with ghosts of our yesterday,
with whole cultures of churches and states to thank.
“I can gather all the news I need on the weather report” –Simon & Garfunkel
There is a varied world view at 9:00am.
I sat in a bathroom on a chipped enamel seat,
where devices scattered and dusted lived on the floor,
or clamped to a metal bar on the pale skin of a small wall,
they were begging for a purpose.
Here, the white draped hand towel symbolized stormy conflicts
which could become a bit less precipitous,
next to that, the hair-iron and blow dryer—likewise the same, utilize me now.
They were items I seldom ever touched.
They called me, shining, purposefully—let’s fix this problem.
We have a solution.
They spoke of their warmth in the form of buzzing,
in the cool air of the bathroom.
They were not like me on this cold beginning, I was unplugged and exposed.
They were about to be turned on.
In morning a system of systems was awoken.
My hair was too short to be straightened, too drought dry—no need for blowing,
and sometimes I liked my hands wet because hydration is key.
And they still needed something to fix, still needed a purpose.
To post artistic criticism today is
to paint graffiti
on a chameleon’s coarse back
and hope for intellectual longevity.
To go against the grain, razor,
a sacrifice must be made—those who disagree give up
and fall into the fold: forty a week,
snowflakes in the sun.
There will be flesh covered in blood.
With ease we quote Bukowski and Palahniuk;
though who are they to us,
us to them? Thoughts?
Good ideas without action.
Bad prose and poems at times come in good form,
and are closely read: this by example.
A dream is only a dream if you don’t realize it as a goal;
awoken to obsession, to stop at nothing,
or anything, depending.
though a true course,
though a chameleon’s coarse back.
How long they maintain.
Qadri said he is not the same person
he was 6 years ago,
6 months ago,
6 weeks ago,
6 days ago,
6 minutes ago,
6 seconds ago.
I am though
one closer to being perfect.
…I guess I’ve changed