Archive for ‘lifestyle’

March 24, 2017

sense of humor/body image

sometimes
no matter how
hard
you work out
your core
or sculpt your body
to perfection
or sweat it out
or believe in yourself,
it still
doesn’t change
your fucked up attitude
no matter
which
mirror you pose in front of
no matter how
many selfies you take
from whichever different angles…

only a
ripped sense of humor
can
make that pretty or attractive or sexy,
only that
can do that,
only laughs
will jack that shit up.

what does a gym
membership go for
for that?  

March 19, 2017

dad knew

i cut the shades to sunrise pale
because there was nothing there and my father.
there were words in book.
there were time spent in the recesses of my brain,
turned to gas and confusion,
lost attentions and forgotten bank statements.
where i used to fly planes even though
i would fill the bag and he would laugh.
then a plane crash. i could feel the fields
and the corn and the trees
and the dirt in the valley as we looked for that wheel
which exploded off on impact.
it was back at the hangar.
…and he used to make bombs like Uncle Sam
and blow deer heads off of walls,
they made sounds like shotguns miles away,
black trash bags and simple chemistry.
smells like someone is burning pine or trash.
cut the shades to nitrogen.
just a thought. the reflection of the house next door
and its waxen motion sensor light,
should have been changed months ago to be effective.
and nothing. cut the shades, they can see in
and i can see out
and i am sure there is nothing there.
that’s what happens with your attitude
and aspiration as you come closer to it.
to that one thing that no one talks about
and pretends isn’t there. dad knew.

February 14, 2017

this poets plight

there are 10,000,000
of the same exact
trying
to do
what you want
to do… the same exact.
so, how do
you prove
what you have to
prove, the you
and what you do?
write about
social justice,
write about your
city, write
about oppression,
write about love,
or if you don’t feel it
fantasize about it;
society gives you truth.
(where is the lens?)
for me,
it’s different:
minimum parental leave,
as a dad,
diapers and breast milk,
little to no money,
full-time work with college debt,
no covered movement,
cis pale male,
no publisher,
i tell people what i think–
no groups,
no promotion to climb a ladder,
just words.
and i make myself happy.
yet still for a poet
like me
my plight isn’t
trendy…
there are bigger memes.
more advertisement to be had.
so forget it.
now, it doesn’t matter.

July 12, 2016

definition

We no longer need reason
To say things are wrong
We no longer need action
To define our meaning

July 11, 2016

lastly we think

mostly driving home
from a reprieve between
standing pole pine–green!
and exalted glamping situation,

below old Duluth
past something Hinckley,
and their road mess,
and slow aggressive lot,

listening to No Agenda,
we realize that we have
realized nothing
for what we are told
by the local/national pundits
and stirring media,
the melting pot hot.

and we riot
and we protest
and we kill
and we oppose

and lastly we think… i am guilty too,

beyond what
we are told by something
being paid to have
us closely listen, sure.

know.

water cooler blues and divisive proclamations…

bad news multiplies
like rabbits and gets
spoke more gossip
than adultery, stay woke.

and lastly we think.
and lastly we think.
and lastly we think.

April 20, 2016

Passenger at the Bus Stop along Hennepin

Our center of life
is constant, steady movement.
Passing along I reflect.

April 9, 2016

To Pay Rent

I would have goals but today
someone else decides them for me.
They tell me to express what these goals are
to my contemporaries and superiors

as if I have created them for my Mona Lisa herself,
some magnum opus hopeless.

We all know deep down inside
that this is what I feel: my goal,

which is their goal,
which makes the world spin,
and gets money stained.

Makes balls stay up high and in vast numbers,
makes things come full circle
and has nothing to do with Shakespeare.

I admit this fact ashamedly, uselessly, truthfully—

I am no where I am not supposed to be
when I am somewhere else entirely.

And I have no goals that are actually mine;
I call them by a different name.

I call them… I forget as I don’t want them
to be stolen from me again.
I keep them very close
and I am well armed
with bright insight and sharp suspicion.

And someone thought capitalism was good.
And I thought oh man, tell me another joke.

 

February 26, 2016

For-Profit Poets (What Bugs Me)

i wonder if the gnat in the shower mist
understands that money changes art.
the very idea of creating something for
pay transforms the something you create.

as if you aren’t going at it for self,
but now going at it for millions. this comedian
bug in our bathtub garden had the sense of
humor to remind me the importance of not

knowing, of not assuming, of not trying to be
the best in any situation, because there is only
self happiness inspired by the true muse.
and nothing more. and those words changed

for the pennies they paid, and some poets
would rather fill their bank accounts than self
actualize. and especially not talk about it.
notice it in similar words and formulas and

themes around these twin towns. i’ve seen
art on the green line, art on the transit, art
at the office desk top in non-profit form that
gave more to the world, so much more.

and i’ve begged and asked of some time to
merely experience, and some think they
have a chance at competition that proves
nothing more than some of us like just this.

January 30, 2016

when someone dies, you know

vivid
energetic
life,

to a
faded
bag
of effervescent
flesh,

inanimate
void,

a torn
latex glove,

a sack
seeped through.

bone
meal.

iron.

film.

i am here
right now.

i am
fading.

January 5, 2016

Mapping Life (Broken Case)

Broken case, & we ask for a fix.

Set life, & we want this

framework society whole,

for we stay. I imagine the world

as a walk through a snow-covered dale.

(Alone, yet we are acutely surrounded.)

Taking animals, breath, & fodder

we imprint & claim. Where factions

of cogs, similarly, work thru the day,

toiling in a city’s heart for pay, and

edged on the fray. Life as an object,

an eye—seeing, as those

who place the charts remain.

We follow, set the calendar’s pace;

boxes crossed out, and the way we

plan our inevitable forays,

this, as the others, all the same.

Our mapping life, all right, the sight…