Archive for ‘Literature’

July 16, 2016

turn at whole foods muse

a saturday morning commute,
when i see high performance
dick measurements
dancing across deep potholes
in our weekend downtown,
i realize that maybe my feet
say more on a quick walk
in broken-open slip-ons
than my hands do on virgin leather,
and that’s was my judgement,
and at a cracked bus stop
some authentic wait lonesome
for jesus christ and good luck
surrounded by windows mirrored,
exhaustion and new day;
who wears the pants and such anyway?
i think all this betwixt coffee sips
driving along the way,
i take it in over “ordinary world”
and think of Scorsese death
while our wet ball spins
(do i need a car wash to appeal?)
and his Porsche turns before me;
the shine blinds, maybe size small.

July 12, 2016

definition

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

July 3, 2016

Commuter Theatre

Sitting, eyeing, on the green line east
at pull of rubber band force
from automatic closed doors,
this way going fast to St. Paul,
reading pulp & fodder & reviews–
rain taxi on such a fine day, muse,
truth as the second coming, we assume,
alone as this newborn child is,
before our welcome birthing days…
And these bells only go buzz
their purposeful bing accord,
and the hipsters trend all over
Twitter and Facebook storyboards,
and I read “Dessa”: as one name,
I am not too big to make real art,
hard looks and fresh lemon bitter.
I am here between twin cities
futzing with the magazine innards
tonguing sore mouth blisters
trying to find a schedule to go on mr…
Stories of contrast black and white
waiting on bleak blue dinged seats
and this line rolls along green,
in pale hot bright summer sun seen,
malaise in my stomach sits–pits,
Snelling, Hamlin, and Lexington,
sour as such sordid sentiment,
I bike to some new on old hopes
to pay cash for a tin roof owned,
I hope it’s not too far, still sitting,
still watching, waiting, thinking:
Do people really think they are fooling
anyone waiting at the scanner’s
edge to run up on the station
without paying the correct fare?
O, bad actors must have just forgot,
the commuter theatre is free today.

June 27, 2016

make a call

the piecemeal
and the sweet
tongue
going perennial,
the gypsum
and the clover,
only had without
strove to
rekindle brethren
likeness,
coming so close
to what we
had to offer,
coming so close
to what we
called home.

June 18, 2016

no. 7 at 14/61 and the future

Between violet sepia bluffs
Cars played lines
A haze grew thick—hot
Orange cones dictated
The fast up and down
Of empty traffic

Cemeteries waved at Dresbach
Sandy islands slipped away
A great dam held its ground
Where days felt longer
And time gave MN goodbyes

Polaris and the waxen moon
Lush grass and free truth
Spread out Abnet field
Voided streets, no yield
Completely consumed

Cigarette smoke rolled
In icy air conditioning
Talks, barstools pushed away
Rum doubles and a door
Familiar face accord

Hands gripped the wheel
Assail easy premonition
A new floor coming in
And I am sure there was
god and love and open skies

All around me the speed limit
All around me cut out hills old

June 8, 2016

programmed

Our pre-set beliefs
May interpret our needs,
Then again we may
Be completely misled.

Only.
Where to go.

Again.

May 14, 2016

feigned poignance in coffee spills as told by a sleepy walker

a pale storm cell of creamer in my cup
rolling from glass bottom straight up
a mind awakens this alarm clock blues
roused from slumber slightly amused

May 13, 2016

15 minutes or less

i see desperation in this fable:
they want to be so badly noticed
for situations and placement
of mainstream sordid pasts;
not unlike the light rail horns
at stray pedestrians midst tracks,
headphones in–blaring, at Huron’s bend.
and we pray they see it coming,
the rumble, the sharp metal–over…
and we don’t decipher to which god,
make believe for a lifestyles–
(why tell them any different?)
someone or something has to stop it,
at the corner of life and death, trivial
and just about noticed for nothing
there are people watching content.

April 26, 2016

The Green Line, What a Show

I was over by Frogtown for a rental showing,
all green—a soil garden, a hill, and the smell
of rotten weeds—I wondered how they
smoked it… here, an old man & his shaggy

dog play. A few varied pedestrians followed
where I walked, and street signs shown old
with certain dull patina, the kind that screams:
forgotten. Victoria St. was vacant except

for a yellow bus near the Victorian Bar and
endless gravel alleyways and broken fences &
overgrown unkempt yards. Later, the station
was alive with families and strollers and trash

and invalid transfers hopefully left. Cozy in
our blue seats on this Green Line, big windows,
we rolled up to Snelling Avenue where a
woman with her luggage used the platform

as a toilet. She pulled at her pants—up over
her waste, grabbed her loose belongings and left.
I sat with the uttered guffawed-surprised sound
of some observant passenger directly in front

of me. He caught my wide-eyed stare, I had
to think before I went to words: what a show.

April 24, 2016

(C)ertain (P)ress

And they beckon
from their red plastic cages,
emboldened words and
colorful photographs—
begging as you go,
the hailing taxis or
the pothole-dodging bikers
and bouncing-stride
stepping pedestrians;
sometimes there is barely a thesis,
sometimes a brain fart,
sometimes a proclamation
as if the ten commandments
from God to Moses, still,
perhaps what we could simply
text and forget;
always the idea of gains
in money, though,
the purpose: profit, something
that comes in by trash ads,
not by dicey articles,
not by thought-provoking content,
in the back, paid for so that
freebie mags—these city pages,
can remain intact
and still forget to implement:
Meaning,
Reason,
Purpose.
Straight to the press!

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