Archive for ‘free association’

April 18, 2018

eye forget

Individual on a library chair cross-legged, slanted posture, defined by my hue too. glued to this book of content unknown, under clouds too. hoping as you. not fearful of that, so they say. spread open again, flesh book, i grin. same name. no change. i don’t even remember me then. i wont begin to explain. this amnesiac has too much hunny, too little time, nothing to rhyme… vinegar for mind. we all do at times. as valued by how scarce it is; here is a free poem. no wonder im broke. on this chair seeing knowledge is the most valuable resource; cant sell those wares. bare. anyway. one day my eulogy or headstone will say: he was good at Twitter, people liked his stuff on Facebook. all prone. but not with that. it’s important. that media won elections and stole our souls. butt eye forget two.

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April 8, 2018

we all know nothing except for that

dusted shades cut the coming light like warm butter,
at the inside hard wooden floor
shadows of imagined exotic and warm,
where rental plants went fastly and
turned terminal in our Saturday’s hue,
in the camera slant, above the golden lamp…
did that rhyme enough for you?
i think i am worried about space debris.
i feel it again, undiscern…
and question everything as everything should be, like:
where are the lunar rovers on earth’s cameras, now?
where are the gods in tragedies, how could they allow?
where are the other sides being told under microscopes amid ads?
deep reflection then a Snapchat to friends
and family who i wish were closer in outer space
and inside with me because of the cold
outside, that is here in April…
what do we call it again… what do we say today… ?
i think they changed it from global warming
to climate change yesterday in below average temps, to
work with our subjective weather model,
so the Narrative can stay the same when it bleeps on the network.
by the negative assertions and constant commercials…
that is why i love modern literary criticism
and the scientific method.
i know nothing, as we all do and i know that.
but you might need this pill to smile.
perhaps something is wrong with you and you can’t tell yet.

February 24, 2018

a million pieces in my head from the 1990s, in summer and winter and with my family

one time, in wintertime,
my dad flew his ultralight plane
to about a 1,000 feet above La Crescent.
he was over blue lake at the time,
at which point
he dropped an old bowling ball,
straight down from the blue heavens.
it hit mature ice and shattered
into a million splintered jet-black diamonds.
its inception played out in reverse on mute.
in summertime, over Wildcat Landing he did the
same stunt with a Santa and a parachute.
i wonder about physics and propellers.
i wonder about moments and momentum.
i suppose he was creating novle myth here locally,
reprising antiqued beliefs,
taking awesome to new inspiring heights.
and now the dust settles on one-of-a-kind.
i suppose, or not. i don’t know.
i guess i sometimes remember these things
and wonder where those new inconoclasts reside.
too many sycophants to being glib modern Spectacle.
maybe he was just raising hell in the 90s,
being like he wanted to be, naturally,
high up in the wind, free.
no politics had a hand in it.
no opinions that were unreal.

February 17, 2018

375

cold, and the famous old man statue
conjures me with a grimace of polished rust.
walking the circle on St Paul campus, I see
naked trees, they are hung up with rope;
scholars going somewhere on them to the the sunshine.
just above the snow and ice and frost and knots.
cutting my buzzed sheen head, skimming my glance.
a glare off the white. constant this time, lunch…
and we just spoke softly of bugs and his Vietnam
and Hodson in letters, inquests, and ways to
go about taking care of others’ dogs.
and making dog food and fixing end boards.
cold, there, cold outside. had a coffee too.
just walking around the circle, such is life.

February 12, 2018

point the finger

the tragedy of our misadventure
begins when we blame others
for where we stand now.

February 4, 2018

pulling teeth

its mostly not the procedure
but the repetitive nature of it
that suffers in the end.

January 26, 2018

waiting for the green line train at west bank station in the snow and cold and heat around 4:36 p.m.

the smell of a late afternoon lunch
enough, enough for snow to melt
imagining debt without a time clock
or vise versa–in some time only fixated…
dusting between keys on a keyboard, jet black
creating something like this, and that, unnoticed unawares
moby-dick for meaning of meaningful meaning
they tell me i have books to pick up
some stand on the shelves like straight soldiers
some crack like and egg in my hand at breakfast
they tell me have a good weekend & we just got over the flu
google will better my photo of West Bank, only soon
words won’t come so easy after that tune
some things just look better in digital format
i will wait for the train, again, here
amongst people who wait for the train, again, here
praising not having to wait for her, once were
wondering what’s in that guys hand, that guys bag
no one puts things on the floor anymore
picking up my little man
waiting for another to arrive–O’ plans: we had
and he asked me what i was eating as if it were bad
i told him what and who made it, of course
man my stomach was starting to feel good just then
thought this before the train came.

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.

December 3, 2017

Purchasing Rumours

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