Archive for ‘humor’

September 8, 2018

A Lesson in Persistence (When Everyone Tells you you Can’t Do It), John S. Harris (Horticulturist) of La Crescent, MN. SOURCE POEM, Words and Inspiration by MSHS.

“Although most people agreed with
Horace Greeley’s
notorious 1860 assessment that
apples wouldn’t grow in the
often-harsh conditions of the brand-new state,
Harris was undeterred.

He planted more trees every year, thousands in total.
He shared his experiences,
along with apples and seeds,
with his neighbors. In his persistent pursuit of apples
that would thrive in Minnesota,
Harris experimented with hundreds of varieties,
most of which, he admitted, were failures.

At the 1866 Minnesota State Fair, his exhibit
of 20 apple varieties inspired
the state’s fruit growers to
form the Minnesota Fruit Growers Association.
In 1868, the group changed its name to the Minnesota Horticultural Society
and Harris was elected president the following year.”

MSHS

***

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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.

February 13, 2018

un-stir-crazy

layering is my relevant exercise
in wintertime around these parts,
try to stay un-stir-crazy.

February 3, 2018

Cub on Larpenteur yesterday

the Cub on Larpenteur
let me know
what i never wanted to do again…
allow myself to be treated low.
i never wanted to do that in the first place.
had to to pay the rent at first tho.
still that fear that lives in my head.
still there is a future out there.
thoughts: maps, directions: how did i get here?
he was an old man beyond driving wind, pushing carts.
no reprieve, no help–he told it all to some kid walking in.
– wonder how he got there?
i will go some other way, away.
surprises, changes, alterations, non-linear.
he told his colleague. up close. personal.
this was him and not him and this was him.
i don’t want that path, i don’t want that.
kaleidoscope of me spinning, no peace.
i walked past to chicken, beer, whiskey, a cashier, etc.
could not see a wedding band on his hardened hands.
wasn’t sure if he was wearing gloves.
at the ground, at the lot, at the cars…
highwaters, dark, wet, soaked, dried, stained; do it again next day.
does anyone have to have pain?
didn’t matter, let me know.
didn’t matter, let me know. let me go.
didn’t matter, no one saw this but me i guess.
six years ago, i did six years, i figured.
i bought my things and carried on, had to go, goodbye.
i think this old-timer stayed. not sure why.
i guess we all gotta eat.

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.

December 24, 2017

the ultimate distraction that nobody mentions, too busy with everything else (millennial debt)

I am ready
for the #consumerism this year to end,
my dragon to slay.
This money, that money, where? donate!
Ready to be more #frugal,
like peanut butter sandwiches
continuing every day until I am #debtfree.
I wonder if goals even exist.
I think more people should #protest that,
protest debt by ending it: mine, theirs, et al.
Instead outside blaming, pointing, aging, etc.
Do that, I suppose. Or don’t.
Sort of some responsibility.
Then worry about everything else.
Because you are owned by your debt,
but you don’t really care until you know.
That plastic, that is you.
The banks that you fund.
They are all in the shadows laughing, watching, pointing you on.

December 23, 2017

20 degrees outside twin cities

what we have here in real life.
it’s 20 degrees outside twin cities.
that could be a hotel.
this brickpath could be a house.
the sky is a sheen marble.
tell me what you think, what else?
it’s 20 degrees outside twin cities.
could take my chopper gloves off.
could lose this woolly hat.
because my head in the clouds
and there is no one around, that.
it’s perfect outside, twin cities.
there’s no reason to hide.
nothing but numbers and times
nothing but humans and climes
nothing but nothing, all right.
yet some would complain.
yet still some wouldn’t mind.
what we have here in real life.
what we have here outside.
i don’t think i mind.

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.

September 10, 2017

poets, spiders, and sponsors

i researched the spider
that i murdered on the floor with a shoe
and thought about climatology
and biology and how
one is perhaps theology and
the other is perhaps fluid language opined, and/or not.
something like an afterthought, after thought.
sametime i made sure my coffee tank was on full.
and aghast and in pitted anguish
someone forgot to turn on the den fan,
i need this air to move around a bit
save for stuck being in stagnation.
only spiders and silverfish live in the basement, the circle of life.
i think this, then i have no worries for my feet.
a million to one i watch an NFL game today
and wonder about the forced labels
and watch as he turns the can and
bottle to showcase for the cameras
their pricey established names, wow, how wow…
also, i woke from a dream about
winning the state lottery, $50,000–
what a nightmare, to welcome the new day broke.
here shaping language in other countries for monies,
still can’t speak it right right here, in a basement.
again, i researched that spider, crumpled, dead, still,
something between brown recluse
and another spider more innocent
the one that no one cares about,
that kills the just-as-offensive silverfish scum.

July 30, 2017

cheap breakfast (over a hot stove in quiet peace frogtown usa, why for fruit and eggs and butter and spice and time and memory)

my morning of foreign language speak spoke
wrapped with a stale beer-feel haze
and cut fruit–tomato, bad reviews, and 2 fried eggs
and contrived paddlewheels
at St Paul later; i am meeting to mend broken pinion gears
for inconsequential yard work
and forget the past
which does not affect us,
so remember not to forget.
with fork turned knife, i cut the
fragile membrane and watched it ooze and
sluice yellow the barebones plate: perfect presentation,
where is Gordon Ramsey when you need him? fuck.
if only for toast–
but they say processed carbs are so bad
with guesswork lexicons,
and so is not just agreeing with…
but dont talk those politics out loud in public,
they could hurt your morning stomach,
could hurt your local pride,
could hurt you like if you were that red fruit right there
unresponsive, go letting out,
about to be devoured by something much bigger
than you could ever truly imagine
and only for cheap breakfast
next to lowly coffee more precious.