Archive for ‘Minneapolis’

May 17, 2017

reinventing the wheel

adulting is a non-stop everything, everywhere and always. no more mac-n-cheese naps with mommy and mr. rogers. keep the bathroom open. listen for the monitor. wake up early, that’s late. eat later, after the feeding. get used to it. dont try.
try not to complain. the heat will turn up. the cold will come. the furnace will die. never really had AC, so… the bills will grow higher in a pile until they start to call your phone from unknown numbers that look familiar. growing. like your gray hairs. like your thin patience. like your elongated nose and drooping ears. coffee stained teeth black holes between. like the grass when you let it go for 2 weeks. and still, humans turn to antique glass. fragile to the touch, sagging at the bottom, blemished for worth. thicker and distorted. probably gravity we blame. and the wheels will stop. and the wheels will fall off. kick them tho. be ready to get down and dirty and fix it, even if you aren’t a pro. that’s how it goes. a new something for you to find a new way to fix a new something. reinvent the wheel why don’t ya? –for gods sake. or try to imagine a time when and where things get much easier and you grow softly younger and everyone thinks positively the same, that they are happy too… and you can keep your wisdom at that.

May 13, 2017

he died doing what he loved

the day before my dad died
my grandma told me to call him,
she handed me the phone and i dialed.
he answered and asked me to visit him in Lanesboro.
per usual, of course i couldnt,
i was busy marrying my cousin
and her new husband,
i was to fish brook trout and hunt morel
at an expansive farm in Highland, MN.
he told me about how midget strippers
were from that area
and he told me he could fly me in a plane
back to the Cities on Sunday. and he could truly.
but i get sick on planes, ex: my whole life.
i would tell him that so he didnt feel bad.
i laughed, so did grandma–a-mid-dementia.
now the cat barfs on the windowsill in St Paul
and i cant move to clean it.
you read, he told me this story.
that was the last i knew of his soul.
now i want an old motorcycle and three kids,
i want a lot of land in the countryside
and to own my own business, sort of like him.
i want to tell rude stories and make people laugh.
all around me is this fabric to weave,
even that old dreaded piece of a phone call
i hide because it worries and bothers
and turns me 4 years younger, less jaded and
more naive. i see him leaving every day is a possibility.
i just wonder when he will come back.
and some believe in ghosts and gods and scripture,
i havent seen much in the way of poltergeists or apparitions;
the afterlife exists now in tongues and no more.
i only feel the ones i never knew
and could care less to just pass
and call my imagination gone astir
or drunken views taken in the timid darkness.
i heard he died doing what he loved a lot,
and when that happens they say it is good.

May 5, 2017

a timed view at 814 S. 12th

my early eyes cut to
the open window at our landing
a pink and orange rising
on some neighbor’s siding wall,
outside quiet,
unobtrusively unannounced,
where grass shakes as strips of paper
leaves stand still as burning effigies
and time waits for a moment.
all life is here and now
the release–of breath of soul of whatever…
and somehow moving on
is less of a chore for this than
sudden death, than surgery, than worry–
and it lingers all the more
touching you softly where it hurts
grabbing you lightly away from your words.
i beg to take a photo of it
that captures such brilliance
but i would only my waste time
with that greedy thought,
and miss the meaning just passed.

May 2, 2017

a most tragic death

i think of an all right time
when the most tragic death occurs,
all will know, of course,
in a time of The Voice
and Reddit and justice movements
(goes along with it)
and wanting atonements and fast wishes,
so social it makes
me sick to my 8 minute abs,
more dirty than the morning dishes,
makes me want to turn eunuch introvert,
makes me want to not be invertebrate,
makes me want you to
get dressed backwards
while speaking in new snake tongues–how fun,
while your self-abuse heals you timid.
i think of it now, and i don’t cry.
i think of it now, and i don’t try.
the obituary will read:
… was a totally normal person without
any addiction problems or malfunctions,
absolutely in tune with all in the room
–you can tell by the photos and likes and comments too–proof–
… dies in a tragic Facebook accident
only somewhat entirely consumed.
yes, they did. taken too soon.
and there will be no laughter.
and there will be no hereafter.
and you won’t have to worry about what your friends will think.
because it will all be more real
than the network could handle,
more real than your profile is just now.

April 15, 2017

Travel to La Crescent, Minnesota

why not leave at 6:30 pm
or 6:38, or whenever time,
no time no matter no worry,
cant think for not?
we go in wetting droplets,
Gods globulars hung at our mirrors
sluiced in the whatnot, and everyday.
Lexington Parkway traffic,
homeless with signs, traffic,
dampness seeps in the traffic,
94 traffic to 52 south.
we were full to the brim; kitchen sink.
sometimes i feel bad for them.
sometimes i feel bad for me.
more of want of wont of need, both agreed.
sometimes everything is always run on monies
so i work harder on Mondays come and see me.
Antony and the Johnsons loudly
and a Fistful of Love… you have never heard of.
the things we dont know are more poignant.
cut across a freeway, no freedom
on our way along the way to see some,
temped by wiperblade and dead deer viscera–
something scattered last week and foul
something old and brown and our future.
losing light like the night.
more south, St Charles, Rochester,
more south, Preston, Rushford, Houston,
into the deep croaking valley green
spawned ever by these roiling storms
kind that would hard driving make
then here now true.
i always wish to dine in Nodine.
then there on the hillside:
a blazing hot cross that says fuck you in passive aggressive
to the spoiled lot that whined about it from WI
extinguished from their special sensitive gaze.
a train that i didnt see but heard blew on by–
must be a metaphor for something…
look at that rambler, i want it.
we can leave whenever to wherever
but when we make it well know for not.
But when we left didnt matter really.

*
come to theorize:
perhaps Dale Earnhardt’s death
was the 9/11 of NASCAR…

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 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.

March 23, 2017

so much variety a person couldn’t find the same publisher in a room of twin publishers, with the same ideologies and inspirations and movements and where their coffers catch ($)

conform
or be
ignored.

March 17, 2017

…the buses which brave curb rash just to find me.

4:30 PM i would take the 87 to the 67
in St Paul where an area code designates different
and rainclouds drop ice instead of acid.

i imagine that the book at my paunch is warm
and a deranged weapon and those
stuck in their devices won’t notice all that much.

life is like that, stuck in something and unnoticed.
that is what Nest cams are for.
Prior and Uni there is a bus stop

and a café where people shield their faces
from droplets and the smell is something unfamiliar,
musty, affronting, acidic, and rendered vanished.

then the 67, then the backseat blue,
then the same aroma i thought i left on the street,
thought for a second it was me–looked at my boots

–must just be the city. bus tires crawled
the potholes, snaked the corners,
and ran me down a slight incline to a juxtaposition.

i saw red brick molested by graffiti
in high up places from a bridge span vantage,
and felt my lunch lurch at stop and go.

diagonal street not there, but where i am going: Home.
and the mailbox lid was up waving at me,
and the gutters were like the coffee pot

with holes just dripping into the basement
to grow what might hang or cower in a crevice…
really, it has nothing to do

with my commute or the day or the buses
which brave curb rash just to find me.

March 14, 2017

the lottery

every day
is like
another
lottery ticket,
even if you lose,
at least
you can
still dream.