Archive for ‘creative’

November 22, 2017

maybe hate is love in disguise

the thing about hating on another’s artwork
is inspiring, i suppose.
i realized this the other day.  that
when someone hated on my artwork it was
more of a show of love.  (it confused tho)
one’s endearing compassion to say.
notice, they noticed and expressed
inspired as it were,
that indelible stated word
so inscrutable, they called my artwork “gay” .
how they used language so well to tell
what was on their expansive mind, so kind.
and in kind i thank them for the brain power passed, twas amassed.
O’ lovely comments like bricks hit w/ light yesterday afternoon
like the bright smile of my great child, or his laugh,
like making it home no deers dead on 52 south.
nothing like it.  dying sliver of a moon on some purple horizon,
no stressful drive, no worry.
things just happened that way, even replies, they say,
sometimes beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
sometimes that beholder is a troll-bot somewhere.
sometimes beauty is a subjective idea.
anonymity is a gem to be polished,
is a life to be assessed by everyone always.
felt good waking up to that notification.
felt good to just think about it in appreciation.

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November 9, 2017

#2048

…cuts like lemon juice in fresh new wounds,
sun through a glass pane, on moving trains,
winnowed and splintered of some past, tracing paths,
shadows track, as setting chairs–act to react,
they read it then to them whose ears come aroused,
loudly now, then silent humming sounds,
falling as domino, crests, and November maple leaves,
falling on broken knees, scabs, and chipped shoulder blades,
here, found, at the entry way, at dusk, here, i wait.
found, enough to be lost and forgotten. then nothing.
then something about skewed imagery: everyday, everyday.

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 23, 2017

if monsters could leave the city

oh tru morning between aging cof
fee and covfefe and chuck dick,
one resignation away from a full deck,
and the meeting the Washington press
people who are good actors–
i mean really fucking good actors,
for saying things like fair and
balanced like a fat thumb on
the honest scale but it doesnt matter.
not like the gamma rays cutting,
not like a baby bouncing new teeth
through the clouds haloing above
the old trees and cut grass: lawn boy:
a broken pinion and the late sunday paper.
more gas on the ground than in it,
more save the world than wtf? locally
heard a domestic disturbance yesterday,
saw someone stealing a mainstreet car.
i suppose if i dont shave
the people who i teach in China wont care
probably wont notice beyond my American smile…
coffee again, father john misty again;
i like the art on the vinyl.
car parked in our odd garage.
monday take out our hot garbage.
so many movements to make,
only got to make movements.
i want to take the time to watch the snake
eat itself slowly as they say bye bye Betsy–
to hear her say she wont have it,
and i think what does
she think of party-made monster,
probably should get through Frankenstein,
probably should hideout somewhere.
or like a scapegoat leave the country.
if monsters could leave the city.

July 9, 2017

how to talk poetry at lake como and there is free stuff on the corner that is treasure and local poets on international ideas and non-profits in the sun on a saturday reflection

we walked Como lake in the sun
at 3, 4, and 5 pm as others ran the circle proper.
i found a wife and a child very happy,
found ice cream and Miller Lite and monarchs floating.
descried a man and a woman stealing caterpillars
from milkweeds near black walnut trees,
recalled that caterpillars arent stupid–get free.
take the insect out of its habitat for safety
lock it up and observe it–for the better, really?
doesn’t make sense to us thinkers.
a couple of canoes reflected off the water
shimmering like a solar eclipses bright, tinfoil cut up.
found blisters on my moccasined feet
found a green Kelty and Boy Scouts of America.
topics of 1995: how to be a U.S. Citizen.
not much has changed much really…
thoughts of running into Tish Jones with another “writer”
a few weeks back, spoke of connected poetry.
i dont think she remembers my name from the
poetry workshop we had together at University.
told me she is international non-profit now
i didnt say what i do… she met teddy and jess.
red bugs and phosphorescent bugs and stabby thorns
and rocks and dog shit and strollers and runners, again.
thoughts of a broken garbage disposal at home
and the fire alarm that fell from the ceiling sky.
cellphone photos in the sun and an empty beer can in hand,
the tallest thickest cotton wood in the city, in this park.
a dockside where people fish in weeded muck
and walk around naked and hot and confused and hungry.
said focusing on everything is focusing on nothing.
trash cans and stone walls and people coming.
the time is late and our child cries for milk.
a parking lot where inordinate occupants move.
pine trees and green grass past Gabe’s patio.
the owner’s car is always parked in front, shining.
found two Colemans in a trash heap of a vacant house
on our tiny and nice street in a good area with good transit.
the rent is ok, the property management is aloof;
this is some american-dream-privilege-fantasy void.
one hundred percent labeled by those who “know”.
i compare indentured servitude and renting property for a moment.
then again, wonder if the neighbors are trying to sell…
it’s a good time to try to make a buck from nothing,
look at this poetry and how it goes and ideas,
especially in this market where easy sells fast
with the right persuasion and movement behind it.
only a walk in the park on a beautiful day.
i promised to be positive from now on
and still i invite the challenge of it all.

July 2, 2017

tour de la crescent

on borrowed bikes we rode
up and down quiet vacant streets
where we went and where we stayed
we had yet to decide.

April 23, 2017

things are pretty hard now

things are pretty hard now…
like buying a house in St Paul
before the 2017 housing market collapse
or opening an English muffin
to make a counterintuitive egg sandwich,
i am wondering if last-week’s leftovers will
make me sick today.
aver that’s how we relate.
legs hurt from kickball and surprises as of late.
head feels like empty pockets
rotting root canal sockets
and a hungover English lesson
on technology through technology
because of technologies outdated;
maybe i’ve taught more than you,
been called “teacher” too,
and still don’t know what to do.
trying to not be the biggest fool
in the biggest fool theory.
i want to build equity
and they want to build an effective wall.
watching for the collapse, the black hole trap.
tooth killing me, what bite.
much to laugh on, no more fight.
you can find me smiling at tragedy.
you can set your robin free.
i found a garden hose
at the corner walk
took it home and saved some money.
there is so much time to go outside.
it will either happen or it won’t.
whatever happens is supposed to.
and i don’t even know if the lawnmower will start.
at the end of the day their speech pattern is the same.
things are pretty hard now…
you should read more about it.

March 28, 2017

how to be a thoughtful globalist in the wake of fake intellectuals

this would make me empassioned, or
impassioned.  i am passionate about this something…
that’s how i get
when neo-globalists
who’ve never left the states
try to fix
other people’s problems
with
their English language exclusively.
the irony of westernization; fixed only by itself. YOU SEE?
and that is what they call backwards and selfish.
tho, there will be no stories of this on the news.
because just get out there and disrupt because.
and they should
call those who
think locally “nationalists” too.
a bunch of loud fools.
you know, somethings don’t translate.
you know, people might have different opinions.
this is how language works.
so when they/you designate
their/your ideas, ideations, and ideologies
as such, i just smh in realtime.
so silly, so stupid, so same.
that is why i am a where-ever-i-am-at-ist,
because i am right there,
i can attempt to understand
what i see and experience around me,
for me, for truth, for better.
maybe even for you…
but honestly, not for you (i don’t care)
or the tv (forget tv), i won’t facebook livestream it
or create a clever sign that
gets thrown away next day in some ironic carbon footprint
(that you too should actually hate)
after the post and the filter and the likes–fretter fakes.
and that is what i am passionate about,
or empassioned about, or impassioned about,
all that is around me
because i can touch it tangible,
as they said, i can feel the real,
i can set the clock next to the bed.
and there is something about language and labels.

March 25, 2017

coulee region, 6 am

The rounded mesas
were verdant sheen in predawn hue
and to the east
steam plumes were standing tall
and the sun
when it rose caught river currents
in the fore
so that they came
entwined to one another
on the earth,
the sun all aglow, sharp,
and the river a ghost mirror reflecting,
as if
they were lovers
of common grounds
beyond whose husks melted worlds away
past all understanding.

March 24, 2017

my painting (even with tired eyes)

i woke up this morning
thought about
painting a painting,
put the colors in it,
gave it detail,
and so it was.
minor moves in maelstrom.
then i called it my own
and asked for a museum,
a place for it to
be put up in,
a place for it to call home.
eye of the storm, so settle in.
and then i woke up again.
and then i found my painting.
and then i found my museum.
to the leeward we form.
looking at the mirror
even with tired eyes.
thank you for this day.