June 25, 2015
Motion reflected between where you are and where you will be;
Void for a shadow where you were, ever lying in wait to reconvene.
June 18, 2015
If adjectives were people
would we misuse them so freely?
Would we tarnish or compromise
their meaning, because we feel it so fit?
A day seldom goes by without hearing “amazing”
or “awesome” or some other elaborate word
that no one truly understands,
because we want to sound smart,
because impressive is good.
I imagine a day when adjectives are personified, incarnate,
they will come back irate,
pissed off at us for our word choices,
and they will take what is theirs.
Without pause or hesitation
they will call us all illiterates and fools,
imbeciles and morons,
they will promptly walk away,
with all ways to accurately describe.
We will then think on how we had it so well,
with no way to say exactly what we have to tell…
And then, inevitably, someone will say, “incredible”.
June 10, 2015
Ears of creation
Heard close on actions promised,
But what of the hands?
May 21, 2015
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.
May 13, 2015
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