Posts tagged ‘University of Minnesota’

May 13, 2015

Gargoyles of Folwell Hall

They sit high up over a vast campus backdrop watching
at those who pass fleeting along University Avenue.
Pillars which appear countless from a single sidewalk vantage
stand at the building’s edge proudly displayed.
Above the intensely ornate deco of Folwell Hall—rich education,
crimson and beige; their solid mouths gape, their eyes a dull marble
gaze at the coming and goings of those on foot.
Connecters roll along packed with transferring scholars,
people stand in peaceful commotion as bikes move fluidly
by in quick motion while the ground gathers unwrapped debris.
These statues hulk through the evening into night, fixed,
unmoved in necessary seasons, unmoved in climes and times.
When there is light the rays never escape them,
true, they never tire no matter the pitch darkness surrounding.
Hard fixtures as they loom, pressing, and they are rigidly forlorn,
above acutely exact academics, loose agendas, and airy aspirations.
A straight-line wind couldn’t take them down, gargoyles of the precipice.
Chiseled outlines grotesque, watching, in swirling noonday skies.

April 28, 2015

I’ll BRB

Gone for a minute, a bit, on a class break, on a handshake, on a piss, on a Twitter update, on to Tuesday Business, outside visit.

A human being, being human, attempting to relate, walk on worn shoes down an empty hallway.

To go back to learn, to go back to concentrate, to go back to think: It’s just a building with windows, it’s just eyeholes in a face, it’s just a storied history told, it’ just absolutely fate.

Today we sit in green chairs, contemplate, and wait, for a paper, for a page, to get paid, and out of debt before we find a soiled grave.

Yeap.

April 24, 2015

Ironic Idiot

And you have an idea
where the mass of society is stuck within technology,

not in life,
not in environment,
not there—just socially aloof,

a society prop void,
a somnambulist day to day,
interconnected;

and that same person,
one akin,
counters with, “that idea is trite.”

as they reach for their smartphone
to update their profile
with a semi-interesting proclamation,
for all to measure.

They are lost as an ironic example,
trying to be anything but.

April 21, 2015

Education Vs. Nature

Sat in a classroom,
boxy and smug,
to

hear the whole world passionately explained,
exactly described,

as
it happens before
and without us
just
outside.

April 19, 2015

A Unique Poetry Slam,

where difference is proclaiming your hardships
in the same way as everyone else.

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 15, 2015

Dangerous Objects

The
most dangerous,
and worrisome,
objects
that
could potentially
occupy
the space within a backpack
are
heavy and overpriced textbooks
and
cheap ripened bananas,
next to each
other.

They tell a tale of economics and lifestyle…

I
think this
as
I go along Coffman Memorial Union,
the pricey disaster
on my
back.

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 5, 2015

Grain Belt Sign

Looking over the tanned Hennepin Avenue Bridge
where a shaded Grain Belt sign still won’t shine.

Here too, Nicollet Island looms in an aromatic Spring night,
shadowed by new and ancient high-rises, boxes of floors,

holes of light, standing against the straightening northern winds.
These apartments of the departed—mills and factories and dreams,

ghosts left for better times and warmer climes.
They no more see the Guthrie above a scintillating river’s distance,

no more spiraling down Gold Medal Park pathways
through thick buggy twilights, in tow bags full of books and beer

slung over shoulders, no more here; new eyes peer.
No more boats or barges pass through the upper lock and dam

loaded with local commodities, as pedestrians stroll along St. Anthony Main
catching a movie, drinking and spending, as tangled trees

build up and obstruct the Mississippi flow below Central, sounding wetness,
sounding to south. For this sign there is no more light.

Right here, remembering this unlit hallmark as headlamps
of cars buzz flashing by, on dotted pot-holed streets,

we on feet, bumble through dialogue of what we read and where we’ve been.
This sign now is painted black as it watches over downtown in the fore,

were it shining off of the muddy waters, were it catching in cigarette smoke
exhaled, were it meeting pupils and blazing that scene on some

grey matter fold in a viewer’s mind, it would still be lit up there,
hanging above a tanned bridge, in its gold, black, white, and red.

April 3, 2015

To The Library, A Day of Doors

Here with a dashboard view,
sleepy eyes take
the quiet city coming alive,

we are few between many doors,

Falcon Heights and going,
street to street,
community to community,

into the morning routine forgotten
on this early route.

Sitting shotgun
under damp skies heavy,
and fleeting streetlamps,
there waiting is the shielded sun,

we go;

creamed coffee in the center console sea
splashes and waves,
ebbs and flows,
high tide to low,

becoming more clouded,

at each abrupt lurch of fresh tire to ground,
at each crude pothole found.

Out with a love kiss
and a copasetic slammed rusty door,

moving towards
a red-brick building amongst other zombies,
dogs, and cats—I hold the door.

Administration signs we pass: “authorized personnel only”,
keys with their jiggling change sound of agency,
intimately within, feeling special again…

Through vacant hallways which exist resembling tubes
and tunnels and fish tanks—minus exotic fish,
with subzero refrigeration units which are warning: no food (!),
and photos of past passers-thru hugging plaques.

Press a sticky button for the elevator—engage the motion,
ding ding ding, ah…
lonely polished doors open,
step in, and close, to hit the number four…

Wait…
Wait…
Wait…

I should have taken the stairs today…
I think, exercise…

We stop,
and out to a wooden door and a sparkling tile floor,
unclipping keys to enter this cryptic lounge,
no one near, just me here.

Turn in, let the day begin,
and come get your books.

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