Posts tagged ‘twin cities’

April 20, 2015

Commute Home through Como

On a home commute lately,
on Como Avenue’s length,
under streetlamp’s orange presence,
with blurred trucks and cars,

where sleeping neighborhoods
and empty industry wait;

I am moving between point A and point B,
I am alone in the dark nodding hello
to the stoplights changing,
empty storefront’s grey,
and mounting sidewalk debris.

Still some bars glow,
still long trains roll.

Coming to me are night smells
of dried hay—ironic spring,
careless weed smoke blown,
and fabric softener exhaust—all biking home.

Lost in darkened new elements
under low heavens, star speckled skies,

lately through Como,
on a commute between two cities,
resting local economy,
where sparkling broken glass
is scattered—reflect, a sight,
in clouded purple shade
of night, no sun, to my eyes, and going home.

April 16, 2015

After the Midwest Poetry Summit,

settle in,

I sat on a wooden deck
regaling
the Midwest Poetry Summit,

what a night, sights
with friends
and poets,

tightly surrounded,
though alone,

whisky breath and sunburnt,

looking over
to
see Scott Seekins—the Artist, the artistry,
everywhere and nowhere at once: art,

here
were
local artists sitting in a corner,
all talking and laughing,

patting each other’s backs with hard-handed purpose—see(?),
an overzealous—bee sting effect,

saying: “we are” and “oh ho!”,
and smiling;

it was enough
to make a common person cry,

so
my eyelids
unhinged
a tidal wave
and
I
hugged
myself
to
death.

April 12, 2015

Experience the Movement: during AWP 2015

In a tight vanilla pale room
with a tangerine sunset view,
where high association
shared big words
and accomplishments tacitly,
wink to a nod,
rubbing elbows,
touching pinked-white hands—shaking,
close, related, akin,
with more than five dollar’s worth of language present, presented,
of which few perhaps did understand,
it didn’t matter though,
behind modern dark faux wooden frames, Lennon round,
piercing eyes darted—knowing names, big thanks,
as bodies in ironed button up shirts,
suit jackets dusted,
leather shoes shined,
and neutral colored slacks creased,
hair done stiff, fine—slicked back shine,
reading aloud
lines and verses and words;
poems unfamiliar,
as those within oohed and aahed,
at each vocal cord’s articulation,
as attendees and audience members
smiled, drank, laughed, explained, translated, and clapped.
A brave man said with confidence to the glaring crowd: this was the movement,
we were it.
I guess maybe I couldn’t relate;
I felt more like a dried stalk of corn in a Midwestern summertime field,
some monocultures are unescapable.

April 10, 2015

Minneapolis Streets

Hennepin
Central
Franklin
Nicollet

March 31, 2015

Right/Wrong

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

March 29, 2015

Bike to Attain a Surly Pentagram at Zipp’s

At times we are a shameless weekend day-drunk,
on more mission than malicious,
while some factors remain
out of our hands.

It was…

In Dinkytown, a hundred dollars pocketed,
bike tires on fresh-thawed paths—
I moved with those in needed noontime sun,

where girls in flowery mini-skirts and low-cut t-shirts
families holding hands and smiling men—friends,
on a walk, on the go,

to Washington Ave, to West River Parkway, to bike paths,
more on the trek: sunglasses, glances, buses, and light-rails
those along the tracks.

Nothing stopped,
masses moving,
given this,
a Saturday to spend,
listless.

In the foreground beautiful dimensions;
a bridge expanse,
where tons of rock and rubble smashed,
stood in the sky above brown waters stirring,

above geese making wake,

with joggers, debris, bikers, and cars in the street,

this is where a person must stand the apex and view the cityscape ahead,
from South,
from Franklin Ave Bridge, it was.

Where Marathons had crossed,
where break-ups took place,
where others died on bikes by cars
in the twilight.

Memorials stood for them, fading,
locked to poles,
alabaster.

My mission: head to Zipp’s for that
Surly, Pentagram:
a $25 bottled designer beer.

I had to,
latent function ephemera.

A need,
like biking while cars pass,

here, remembering houses and nightly walks home alone,
or with new found strangers,
remembering people under streetlamps, red eyes glare,
empty cans and scattered trash about,
remembering.

An accident brought me back here for something,
Seward streets and an absence of time.

I thought of Tracy’s and Luce,
and cigarettes and movies,

of what I had not come to see,
but did…

I was careful with my backpack, another bottle couldn’t break.

March 26, 2015

Procrastination and Lists of 612

Waiting the day
for something
to happen;

wasting the now
for the then.

Sharp alarms, busy commutes, weathered words,
between;

we are too—
local tasks, art, lists, work, and trends.

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 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.

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