March 23, 2015
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 18, 2015
Observe the scattered common stones of these Twin Cities,
dusting sidewalks crumbled—ubiquitous,
taken in hand at foot, and thrown to,
from a bridge’s span above fast flowing currents of the Mississippi below.
Here flies to splash an artistry tangible,
before honest spoken words,
a sharp tone in tender ears,
which is contrast to what’s pictured:
Seen drawn lines,
Seen paintings bright,
Seen music made,
Seen night life.
Though observe them,
they are outside, heads aloft in thick-clouded dreams,
banded, mouths in perpetual motion,
hands seldom untied,
broken parts of stone—
proof over talking about the scene you’ve seen.
How those stones have accrued.
Some things get overlooked,
some things get stepped on;
other things get talked about profusely;
What of art does one hear?
March 13, 2015
As early March had come in biting and the best were kept inside,
a span of two weeks had passed slowly and sleep had become elusive.
Professors watched second hands tick and gave out faux tests;
these symbolic life quizzes—it’s who makes it who matters.
Desks became confines as concentration went out open windows,
to welcome hands of mild weathered-breeze and new-season sun.
People—tired students, red-eyed lecturers, they didn’t exist;
regular situations became stimuli for a stagnant comatose: why?
No answers formed, except that three days later a person could be a week away,
anywhere—abroad, nothing to do, only to read titles and books which please.
Yet we all sat watching that clock, it moved slower despite us;
now, it would have to stay indoors and assess classrooms of empty chairs.
Scholars and administration would hopefully be in Spring air, taking it in,
with a cold beer in hand and tender sunrays on their back;
minds would exist as empty—blank slates, to pen a tale—an experience,
with no thoughts of what was left sitting behind, with not a hint of rigor.
March 10, 2015
Tall, the buildings do look down on me,
in their all too mirrored reflections;
content in ways, their eyes do gaze,
busy city brought to my attention.
March 2, 2015
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.
February 24, 2015
Waking to this early Tuesday overcast
Love and work scatter the wooden floor below
Amongst dust rhinos and smudged folders, as
Stacked bound books beg for openness
Violins float in the apartment, making classical
Air, as though class systems didn’t exist
A tea kettle is burnt alive at the stove top,
While I starve in scraps of last night, of last minute,
Of yesterday, and of the rest of my life;
These pieces abstract on this yellow kitchen table
The body is fine when the temperature is above freezing;
Spring is here, teasing us back out of our shells—
Newly just out of bed, just in new light,
Now is the product of our sensitive closed eyes
And a person should acquire all of it,
And it’s just the second day of the week
February 23, 2015
I once met this “poet”,
He hadn’t written a single word—
It’s been years since then,
He bears the same rank and title.
February 22, 2015
A life made of days,
A year made of moments;
How we will forget—
The places in between.