Archive for November, 2012

November 28, 2012

Thanks For Giving

Thanks for giving.

I am thankful for everyone around.


Cars lined the streets, loved ones meet and greet-this is no funeral.

We live in this small town.


Glasses to blind the light, glasses to cheers, to the night.

Get things right, sit in the seat of that car.


The sun spoke in a confusing way.

She said hello and was gone the next day.


Sharing stories while we ate.

Unseasonably warm, an unseasonable holiday, heat unseasonably late.


Laughing while talking, reminiscing on those who have gone.

They can no longer make it in the flesh.

The herd, stretched tired, rests, then moves on.


God Bless.

God or common sense?

Much respect, but this is the present tense.

Hence, I closed the book before the fiction got me entrenched.


I don’t speak to those of blood on religion and politics.

Whatever I was, I shrug.



What I used to be.


The rest of your life begins right now.

They don’t see me enough, they don’t see me at all.


Food more plentiful, but who will finish what we’ve left when we are full?


I wonder, others?


No place like this on earth, so small, so quaint, we come from the dirt.

Only to be buried in it, all the land covered in snow and frost for months.

Love this lovely bunch.


Daily a memory is lost.

I forgot…


Driving around in my mother’s car listening to Prof, the girls at the store notice and I smile as they wave.


I come back seldom, just enough to make it seem real.

I fly back to where I am a transplant, and life ticks by.

We all wonder, I wonder if we ever wonder why.

November 25, 2012

Nothing Of Something

Nothing of Something
By Terry Scott Niebeling

A lack luster flicker of a star sends a shining message from afar; judgement on distant affairs, to which few care, particularly the provocateur.

Not knowing what he compares to reality, most likely steeped conversation and argument in fallacy.
But he won’t mention that.

But who is counting? Even a 3 year old can- 1, 2, 3, etc.
Look above, seeing is proof.
He reads it, it is then truth.

We pass it on as lack of judgement, no one budges.

Stand in line wait your turn, the frustrated real nudges…
Some years in the sky; he has seen it all, his ideas fly.

He has no fall or fault in his suspended reality, I wonder what he actually does?

He couldn’t be who he was.
Could he?
Even if he tried less.
Quick to judge and then later realize, quick to impress his peers with small fries.
Others look with 20/20 eyes.

He judges the clouds not in his skies, and the inhabitants of mountain tops aloft, yet he has not entered into anything other than the space he inhabits.

No grip to grasp at. Gripe to grabble at your babble.

He has not wore the crown described, or the leather boots assumed, not drank the liquid consumed by all the fools. By accounts on experience he has nothing to prove, he remains in same old shoes.

Cold spoon to bruise, attempted healing remedy, a bandaid.

He plays the blues, as we read his words we snore to snooze. Last battle, one more not to lose.

Choice words, time to choose.

But that is just presumed, I have faith in the hypocrite, I have faith in the fan. ūüėČ

Despise me, go make a bandstand.
Rally some of the same brand, how grand.
How simple.

Really, you are simple.

But its been done.

His orbit is morbid and ideas remain contorted to his very whim. Time stands still, he stares harder; he explains a cake before a taste, he knows a lager before the bother of a swill. Much skill to kill, apparently.

We have yet to see.
Come make us thrilled.

Take your childish poems back to the retirement home, or preschool, you can’t avoid what we do, your words are see-through. Be cool, sometimes we get frustrated too.

I sit on top, as stated, watching you struggle from the bottom.

You said it, they said You Got Him.

A certain blow from a made-up foe, damaged he; struck to calamity, clubs came down upon him, what a catastrophe.

But who gives a fuck anyway?

A new situation to fill an empty void of lost patients, he tries to fill a broken cup; years of complacence, years of disgraces. A common place vagrant searching for famous placement.

Don’t cut your face to satisfy your thirst.

How wise are we?

This is just an assumed assessment, though, I could careless about your time present.
My perception is my perception.

This star must trust that he will inevitably combust, a few readers, or alone, with only judgement and a dark space to call home, like the rest of us.

No one is above the rest.

Everyone dies by themselves, he thinks; where you come from is where you will go.

All others can see what he’s done, see who he was, and call it naught for a buzz, but for a simple suggestion, a shrug. How smug?

And he thought he was judging a mere child.
Maybe, but understand all children can smile.

When into question he frolics, he does not understand what he reads; therefore only heeds to a need to be not astounded and still counted.

At that instance exacting an answer, a whimper, a hope, a word transfer.

A star founded years after has stolen his knowledge and laughter in less than a fortnight.

Even if he were surrounded he couldn’t have acknowledged that he found it, some stars are just lightyears away. The rest of your life starts today, so go prosper.

But black holes still suck.


Don’t believe everything you read, and thanks for reading. ūüėČ

November 20, 2012

A Moving Time

A morning unfamiliar; in a house outside of La Crescent, foundation holding tight as the light drew near and around my fetal positioned body.

Companions were no where to be found, a couple years earlier a suicide happened above where I lay; she was wrapped in tarp, strapped to a bed, wood planks about, needles stuck in her arms, pornography splayed at a leisure fashion; this information came to me through family members.  The room empty, except for sparse fixings and furnishings wrapped in plastic to be left and forgotten.

The new day had begun, as I strolled to my vehicle I was awakened more by the rising sun, and the feeling of alcohol in my stomach; fermenting as I lamented on the previous nights passing and lost belongings. ¬†The ring which I found was then lost again. ¬†The gravel below my feet made a sound, Chuck Taylor’s met crushed rock, key met lock, door handle met hand, foot met clutch, and I am off to a new beginning.

7 years older and wiser, I found myself remembering this move.

I drove up with my second youngest sister, my youngest full sister actually.  We rode in my blue Civic, my mother and stepfather in tow inside of a moving truck.  And I thought, unsure of what I was about to do, had I made it?  I thought of the suicide and wondered if she made it as well.  We were both on to new things.  I thought of the empty bottle of rum I woke up with; I thought, what a companion.  I finally got to the bottom of her.  


Slide the Tom’s on his feet then to the street to teach the fleet of young discrete.

Commonsense logic, above the new day, a new project.

Project that, in a building for the thrilling idea of prospect.


I am most likely dodge this endeavor.

Avoiding assumed facts.



Straight out of Minnesota, straight out of Wisconsin.  I get stressed sometimes.

Fuck it, straight out of the Midwest.


Much sun, little rain.

All the same, like LA.


Holding tight to reign on the day.

Won’t move to clouds to see a coast.

Won’t leave the house, I want to see a ghost.


Of about realistic ideal, substantial appeal, and great sex.

Aspects flawed, but what do you expect from the rest?


Never rest, thinking on big breasts and progress.

Ready, set…

Then off with her dress.

Off with morals, no regrets.

And then off with her head unless she forgets.


I bet.


Much impressed with characteristic antics, authentic to the best of my abilities.


To the best wishes.

And then I exit.

With respect.




The new Bond flick is playing torrent on our plasma.

We are flying remote control helicopters in this bitch.



“Security through Obscurity.”

Bond, James Bond.


Frozen split peas, a bargain for a meal.

Dinner time, winner time.

This winter is real.


Feel the cold, be bold in the snow.


This icy globe spins as my day begins.

Contacts in and then I become frantic.


Pretending to be a student, fluent in bullshit.

Free pass to the gym, excellent, physically relevant.


A bullshit day at work, so more drink, and more dessert.

Loathing; hurt and insecure about self-worth.


I am 25, I drink, I wash dishes and sell donuts.


My day is done and forgotten. ¬†Her’s was over before mine began.

Now I think in the moment.


Suicide ends all progress.

Why do some people race to the end?

November 11, 2012

Oppressive Options (Now They want to be like Me)

Fans are setting goals in respect to my situation, and talking about words on occasion.  I am in good company; everyone that surrounds.  Complexion not mentioned, hardly ever, always abound.  Those who avoid regressive expression and let it out.  We are found.  We are now.  

Like DKR, Like my roommate.  Like we do.  Like in the BroHaus.  Over and Out.


However, I sit and think.  I think and drink on economy, prosperity, reality, and dreams.  How realistic they seem, and how to make ends of means.  I believe.

I guess I believe…


I turn pink because I can’t relate.

I read more, instigate, initiate.


Not to hate, not to hate.

I’ll extrapolate.


Dodge dates, girls wonder why I show late.

Or not at all.


Count your blessings.

There are 99 bottles of beer on this wall.


Not my fault; I was taught by condition to absolve and revolve.


Keep straight forward, on a mission.

Watch out for number one, and wash the dishes.


Breakfast in the kitchen; Guinness Extra Stout and Gravity Drip Coffee, eggs, lime, rice, and beans.  Be lean, stay clean, read Minneapolisscene.


Write like that, like this here.

Right here, right now.

To exist, not missed, somehow, and still get around.


Not so fast, chill out, sit down.


So clearly mirror what you are near that you disappear.

Steer clear of fear.

Drink much with peers.


Appreciate those you hold dear, and the lack of competition.


Wishing like they are fishing for a compliments.

Bitching, that’s how I vent.



And they hold it in.


Get asked why I am so happy.

Probably because my smile says fuck you, and inside I want to flee.

Exactly, exactly!


Just to be free.

Just to be something like me.


So many options and no definitive answers.


But freedom and choice cause oppression and tension.

Just go with your gut, end of the lesson.


And in my other blog I talk about fucking, and she says its substantial.

Beat that Dane-imal.

She gave me a handjob and called me an Asshole.


The day was uneventful, so I slept through it.




Identity crisis, thoughts divided.

Self-minded, ever self-minded.


I love you Dane,

Good luck on your goal to out write me.

P.S. ¬†Sorry for drinking all of your SnowShoe Grog Schnapps. ¬†I’ll get you S’more Schnapps soon.


November 6, 2012

Coffee, Reading, and Votes 11/5/12-11/6/12

More material than a craft store…

Starting word wars with scholarly whores.


But, anyway, we wake up in the same bed, problem solved.


And that one time began like this:

A Cat in a window with different colored eyes.

Light blue and light green, contrast clearly defined.


Walking to the cafe to spend a few dollars.


A pumpkin ahead smashed to death on the side-

walk right by to Bob’s for java and the warmth inside.


To open up my eyes.

Just to open my eyes.


I sat back, watching peers through a window as they went on with their lives.


Contemplate the day; a pint earlier, though it was morning, but not before sunrise.

I was patient, life then was boring.

I couldn’t find a surprise.


A modest work for a modest pay: the modern modest’s only way.


Art, Drink, Sleep, Fuck, Write, Etc…

Shut off the light and pray you’ll make it through the night.

Breakfast of champions.

Feeling cramped again.


Start the day.

As they say:


What are you doing with your time?

Are you still studying?

Brain bubbling?

No, not really, I am just waiting to quit.

I’m loving it, reading a lot. ¬†You know-

Books are legit…


And minding my own fucking business.



(Then I listened about)


Anxiety of national responsibility on their lips.

It sets in, as hearts dip.


Even worse my Ma is sick.

I am thinking B.I.G., I am thinking dark and tired, I am thinking about starting a fire.


Trying to be inspired.

Bukowski said don’t try-its written in stone above his catacomb.


It’s the water around it.


Don’t doubt the happenings at a glance.

Wait to review the past.

Then think before you act.


And I was tired moments later.


(Then I listened about in another direction)


The Beatles were playing and everyone was buzzing about politics.


January 20th, 2013 everything will change.

They say.

The tea is warm and tastes a bit bitter,

I thought.

The coffee smelled swell and everything was well.

We all sat, we were all lost in thought.


Then I took off.


Warm place downtime.


A transgender lady spoke to a gentleman about stance as David Bowie played one of his classics.

I finished a book and couldn’t find the right words.


God damn, I can’t wait until tomorrow is over.

You can’t say that everyday.