Archive for ‘artist’

September 13, 2018

Mac Miller and Donald Trump and Lil Pump and Theories, they are all good to some, and not.

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***

we can safely say
that Donald Trump DEFINITELY caused
the hurricane–and every other problem in our lives,
set to possibly strike, today.
(Right?! I feel that is what the news is telling me…)
that’s a real sentence, like the news:
allegedly, possibly, here’s my opinion: fact-checked.
tell your Facebook friends in real life about it.
at the same time, in real time,
i ponder revenues and gains
of crises and who pays for the news about possibilities.
(that’s one aspect of an event and objectively real.)
i ponder what if it doesn’t happen?
(i am an economist. a fiscalist. a realist. a human.)
surplus: like gas for escaping.
surplus: like lumber to board up windows.
surplus: like food and supermarket staff…
surplus: of water and winds and clouds, as reported.
petrol to move product to get to you.
.. then again, other tragedy, Mac Miller died, heard a story.
now, i want to start a podcast
called conspiracy theory dad or responsible millennial parent,
get artist before i die… “he wrote this and that.” “Amazing.”
but everyone has a podcast.
everyone makes music and writes words.
everyone is political scientist ready to expound.
everyone is a progressive poet, #RESIST.
everyone is Facebook famous.
everyone is a human being and the same.
everyone has bad days and is at times sad and wrong.
my dad died. i believed in debt. labels define me daily.
told i would never. told i couldn’t. i did.
no matter what i do, anyway, it’s because of how i look.
maybe become a Christian again. maybe.
i believe everyone is good and can achieve if they believe
until they leave. but Mac Miller today.
he filmed a video in a coffin a while back, alive.
self-fulfilling prophecy has him there now still inside.
he wrote a song about Donald Trump, the president,
causing storms and Stormy Daniels news, and pointed views,
read Wikipedia about it on accident a day or so ago.
nothing new, like history.
wow, that all means nothing to me.
wow, that all means something to me.
it’s not like paying debt or working hard or having a plan.
not being involved with consumer debt and ads in the news.
they get you to buy, get you to buy into it…
present an event, present an option to buy, present why.
or, it’s not like
making a sandwich or changing a diaper or getting screamed at.
it’s like asking for a handout and
expecting it as if we were (fill in the blank).
this poem sucks, no potential, and Lil Pump sells millions, fuck!
i am happy for him though, he seems happy too.
he doesn’t cause storms and is alive.

***

Hello.  Do you consider yourself a helpful person? If so, consider donating to keep the poetry on my site free to all. Any amount helps, even a penny. Thanks!

PS: WordPress does NOT pay me for the ads you see all over this page, they make money off of my writing through these advertisements.  I don’t receive a dime.  So anything truly helps.  🙂 

Keep this site free!

Donate at: https://www.paypal.me/TSNiebeling

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May 17, 2018

through the motions

clouds caught in a jigsaw fashion
over the maple tree rise, beyond the fence
along the way, red wagon trail pulling.
i think of daycare fraud and student debt and animal crackers.
i guess i don’t know really.
i think i can’t say things so i forget.
a million blades of grass cut, pollen & dust.
water bottles refilled to save water bottles.
for convenience, not ad hoc ideology.
coffee of yesterday in today’s to-dos.
sun hot, wet and warm pre-storm;
maelstrom malaise, sorted parts going lost.
i see officials officially not officiating.
i restored the compost for repast.
they invited me to lunch but i pass.
shadowy secrets figuratively are literally not really there.
grapefruits are very hard and sticky to peal.
i ate my juice and some sliced toast with my son.
saw language appear in a mouth of not two.
saw laze appear in the days not through.
unbelievable, like the sun like in 2002.
dad was alive and well telling me he was invincible.
i have not yet visited his grave since he occupied it.
i couldn’t believe my eyes anyway.
woke up from a daydream staring hard, hardly awake.
stuck in a room where lights go out and walls are bleak.
put on the speaker phone and
made a date for some building with a money name,
made time i didn’t have it wasn’t mine.
thought about not writing for some reason.
thought about why it mattered.

April 27, 2018

3A then up como to st albany

… the 3A stop then
over washington i float
from under
a bridge, light rail
lights spark ultraviolet purple.
winding away from it all.
Mississippi spiral java white foam below.
crackle, hum, bump, buzz. thump.
transit lines like veins spreading to midway limbs.
i head away to daycare near a lake.
crowds by the fair grounds, police waving traffic.
to a stray dog in a parking lot,
sniffing at trash, people with odd stares.
maybe not stray, wears a collar.
calling to say i made it, where are you?
we are talking of Oswald and weather,
“…they said it was supposed
to rain today, but it’s clear
over here.” Yeah, there’s a cloud
over my head, no melancholy intended.

i always say i am starving.
it’s a good way to lose weight to stay in shape.
phone to my face. that dog barked.
i jumped, embarrassment, scaredy cat.
i walked to the back entryway door.
opened it. read the letters stuck with tape.
smelled of diapers and lotion and food.
a church now a school, then dark, very.
same thing. same thing. same thing.
then we all met and left.
in the shadow at that stop back there.
before i left i thought:
i take the 3A now, not the light rail.

March 6, 2018

03/06/2018 snow removal for the corner lot and the ideology that comes with better my community for my community through action

woke to
delayed buses
old tweets
hopefully not-cancelled daycare
strong coffee
necessary boots
thoughts of snapping
heavy fucking parka
and a pre-broken back
to shovel us out.
that’s my life.
no choice really.
checking my something…
the weather up here,
and we think we can change it.
probably we don’t.
it changes us.
in so many ways:
my skin is pocked
eyes are dry and red
throat sore, pain in head,
even when cleared.
tell me who owns who
and i’ll show you your facebook updates
and i’ll show you to donate to your cause
and follow that money, former and latter.
people do good and bad things.
surely, those ideas are paid for.
these are cost free!
why do you wake and stay woke?
there is shoveling to be done just there.
i have to go outside
and deal so no one trips
and falls and
sues. no one trips at this residence
and falls and sues on salted ice.
i disagree with MPR on the matter.
they don’t salt my walk.
i don’t salt theirs.
that works out for both of us.
the cameras will tell of the driven snows and blocked streets
and they talk of fairness.
blizzard winds, clear my sidewalk
so i don’t have to. diapers to change.
English language to teach in foreign lands from my basement.
that sounds fair to me.
go out and get lost in it, i will.
go out and another round at this love.

March 5, 2018

Big Mouth Bards

i find that
you can
simply
appreciate every-
thing,
any-
thing-and all,
and not have to write a song
about it
as proof.
just think.

Tags: , ,
January 20, 2018

some new problems came up on the 16 bus, so did you think the snow was bad, tell me what you think about the weather and the Vikings games i need to forget everything else and pretend everything is awesome…

snow out the window sinks
tightens and stretches
like the budget that we forgot to mention.
a 16 bus floats down University avenue,
Green Line aside; all the bars i can’t visit.
man behind the wheel says peek-a-boo
and hello and hey and whistles.
“i’ll stay inside for the Superbowl,”
but it’s triple overtime i think, line the pocketbook.
guy who doesn’t pay the fare: he looks like you!
i know, i love it and smile to my self.
in a basement studio with no meaning.
in a basement studio language, meaning, lofty.
to Aldi for diapers pickles and popcorn.
no more phone, calls on Google Home.
what if god was one of us? just a sloth like one of us.
2018 tragedies carried over from last year and the 90s.
i want to be bob dylan, i want everyone to love me.
everybody wants to be cats. dance the silence…
that’s just about as funky as you can be.
still the tears pile up.
they are puddles piled as metaphors high as the sky.
some other poet could write it better probably.
one thing goes wrong, next a million.
who isn’t tired, who isn’t trying their best?
no worries though, budgeting.
never been on a better diet, 3 notches in my belt.
grow muscle, grow bitter about society, lose weight: dad diet.
friends wives call to sell health, well…
tell the ads to go to hell.
we literally can’t afford to buy anything right now, for years.
AND i thought we were friends?
new phone, sorry who is this, i lost your number again…
shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
the snow sinks and turns to brown water.
all thoughts of fall and crisp leaves and warm sleeves.
please help me make the rent so i
can make the daycare so i can teach English
and get 7 on reviews when i need a 10
and their internet is at fault, shithole internet.
i wonder if it is mine and speed test and it’s fine.
project Fi treats me like a child.
i am blue davy dee davy da… blue.
my bank treats me like indentured servitude.
then reading memos on fact-based privilege.
tell me more about me that i don’t know about me.
the way i go, i am a pale robot, i am a terminator.
with emotions, with new days, between oceans.
the way i go i talk about the snow.

January 18, 2018

I wonder how much #Wordpress makes for these advertisements…

we are the coffee pot high marks,
cold shower goose pimples,
cold shell outdoors,
adverts between posts
machines making money, the most,
and living on piqued hopes.
i wonder where they come from?
reality attuned–or askew?
skilled in many topics,
including topics like you,
including flying to the moon,
including AC in June.
but that’s logic anyway.
still no idea really.
can’t care: too many mouths to feed.
too many days not fishing,
too many walks in the weeds.
i still see my dad in me.
haven’t visited that stone though.
like elvis, tupac, and biggie.
somewhere exotic, secret home, alone, you know.
i am cheap coffee grounds, again.
barely breakfast, usually little lunch.
no inheritance.
words between ads that don’t pay me.
but i pull for that company.
thanks wordpress.
thanks, now i care.

October 21, 2017

52 south in minnesota and some thoughts that i can’t escape like the blood on the highway and the lights up ahead

the dead deer leave their stains on 52 south
longer than the sun hangs in Oktober skies wide pale,
i hope to not create that sort of artwork tonight.
probably someone died in the accident at Coates.
glass, lights, backed up traffic and silence at the crossing.
entrails and scattered viscera, nature and force.
later, i hope this poem doesn’t take a dive on me.
matter and brain matter and matter matted.
where softly playing wind chimes alight and inflatable
Halloween decorations on the lawn greet us, hum.
barefoot in the street talking visas and books and
cars and presents, my mom’s birthday is this weekend.
above some star dies and the cemetery up the hill knows.
at least two beers on the couch, check in at motel home,
at least some pictures. my little man is awake past his bedtime.
teaching language in the morning, then they talk like me.
these strangers aren’t strange, they are nice.
wake in the morning. talk talk talk talk talk talk
talk talk talk talk talk talk. what’s the problem?
i know how she is when she is the way she is, love.
same costume as the last 5 years or so, goodwill find.
there is no surprise like there is no surprise.
an animal jumps in front of the dashboard, it’s a leaf.
there is not change there, no change there, there.
lock and dam no. 7 is an empty street where josh died.
dan will be at jules and wives will be in andere Staaten.
nextday i have coffee and talk to China and think
of the money that i don’t have and need to find somehow.
doesn’t matter, but that fucking deer is dead again now in my head again.

July 7, 2017

hands foot and mouth disease

… yeah, being a dad you see things,
saw hands foot and mouth disease again
from the other end, i say this now
but when i was 17 years-old i got it too:
sister taylor was an infant
she had it at the time and my hands turned
to blisters that couldnt pop with knives
feet turned to pins and needles and nettles
and things that couldnt pocked hot and roiled
something not nice at all
the doctor said, yeap hands foot and mouth
like yeap, i had HIV in 2007 and it was positive
and then it was false positive and gone
and my head is still living with the idea of dying
living with this is not a medical facility
living with the idea that labels changed me then
now my son has hands foot and mouth disease
like its a problem but i can relate
O’ you havent had it? you got it easy
and now he is teething to top it all off in twilight
i love sleep for not having it
i love having someone like me growing up
love is a beautiful thing
Plato said a grave disease of the mind
now look at my appendages

June 25, 2017

i notice and i think you should too

i will tell you, if you want to be unique,
differently skewed and
especially noticed or adulated where you are,
dont be a poet.
coffee and beer are my fuel during this grey day;
opposites like that do attract, like defined words and me.
(Sunday morning coming down,
wrote this yesterday while
teaching students how to speak Midwestern English in other countries (plural).
i could say i am international by now, wont.)
(anyway) to get noticed, get a real job,
work very hard every day, and
mind your own personal business
in this capitalistic venture,
otherwise known as your broken dream land,
otherwise known as real life.
dont take photos to share on social media;
nor add filters for likes, #NoFilters.
nor wear a bunch of makeup
to make up for your flawed human makeup.
nah, you needn’t do that.
just be, thats really real and really noticed.
people think you got a problem then.
tell them to unplug and not scroll.
my breath applauds me, my feel stings as truth alone.
that would be unique in a world where going viral on CNN Breaking BS
or standing on 94 W or E rebelling pointedly,
maybe cutting off ambulance service to someones grandmas dilemma,
like the rest of the thoughtful group
over 12 peers turned to one loathsome local department,
under adjectives: fascist, systematic, murderers et al.,
is considered some sort of special star sticker and truly esoteric
and great advocacy and activism novel, true, poignant, necessary.
but i understand sort of, well i do…
it seems too obvious and you know it…
you do.
products of media brought to you by you and look at those pricey ads.
so go ahead and think,
how can i not be like them, working for someone who doesnt pay me,
the others that do the same thing (as others)
that i do, yet with more good friends
with more important memberships
with heavy solicitations–sell my books, ever heard of pulp?
pulping happens.
with more performances at more trendy publishing houses
at more hipster coffeehouses.
i also wrote a poem today that wont get noticed.
like everyone else(s).
it is bigger than pale generalizations.
more complex than a Saltine cracker
and its box–squarely.
you know, i wont put some same sign in my shitty yard
for people to like.
for i dread mowing and wont water for more work.
the neighbors enjoy my company already, go ask.
there isnt enough space on it already too,
to say what i want to say, with open meaning,
and it wont make the community feel better anyway
because no group backs it, i havent donated to prove i believe,
and because it would say: each individual should do better
themselves as a unique individual, individualists themselves.
because if it were that easy to fix the neighborhood, with signs,
then everyone would be doing it…
and if the doorhandle opens the door i won’t fix it either.
even if i kick the door in and the handle is still on it,
then probably the doorhandle still works.
like poetry–it doesnt take much really.
getting noticed though…
so i dont know what else to write,
that’s true or fiction or thought.
besides: nothing special here, just i notice(d)
and i think you should too.