Archive for ‘performance art’

February 18, 2017

this morning here is what i did…

on Saturdays i can usually
drink a whole pot of coffee, not just half
so it sits until the next day and maybe
goes into a growler in the fridge.

my stepfather says it’s a waste to make less
than a full pot of coffee, so today i feel
accomplished and un-wasteful. on the way
to write this i played with the stinky cat

with a painful foot that possesses an ingrown
toenail on the big toe and has athletes
foot unrestricted. i turned on the kitchen
light and opened the shades and perused

the backlot as i filled the pot with tap water.
my wife changed a dirty diaper and prepared
for work. i cleared my mind for getting my
ID updated and a new credit card;

i would have to change accounts. i poured what
was left of the old coffee from yesterday
into a tall glass, added creamer and drank.
thought about how i won’t buy beer this weekend

and how our podcast went so well. it’s things like these
that matter, keep the full pot full, positive.
my stepdad was right, and then she walked in
to ask what i was doing in here, listening

to funky soul on Google Home and writing.
waiting for the full pot of coffee to be done.

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December 11, 2016

mission control, i got a cold.

ah… mission control,
my pink floyd head
can’t handle the
layered, fluffy driven
snow. i thought
about that easy idea
for a moment and
shoveled it past fast;
a dog’s muted bark echoes;
beyond cut crystals
that adorn clear glass.
what a cold day to be
spreading out on this
red yoga mat, sooo ready
to take a shit,
ready to sip my coffee
with some honey in it,
in a tall white mug.
sort-of, kind-of like me
in the right light.
ah… mission control,
where is john glenn,
where is our politics
as usual, where is
my old cold medicine?
got to watch meet
the press, got to…
tell me what i should do.

October 26, 2016

daily reader

i read the newspaper
backwards today,
from the bottom up,
each sentence slowly,
word for word
left left left left…
one at a time
to make the story
come out differently,
better, in hopes
for posterity and that.
well, no such luck.
and on a rainy gray day.
when i reached the top
i found that
i was at today’s date,
& still confused,
& still wondering at
how fiction could appear
so viscerally spun. 

August 14, 2016

middle finger

“Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about—however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way— either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.”

― Herman Melville, Moby-Dick

there are some times
i want to use
my middle
finger so bad.

i see it coming,
some idiot,
annoyance, stooge–
realize
that everyone
is watching, waiting,

tighten up,
and hesitate
my finger into
a balled fist,

put it away
for better judgement
and self-
sustainability,

and think
this is what people
must feel like
when treated unfair,

i can’t do
what i want…

certainly,
only because i have
been told i never
feel like that,
or have felt it ever,
not possible.

tho, every-
thing is.

still, my middle
finger is upset,
turned in,
depleted of its work,
unwelcome
and put down,

in our new
america, spectacle-laced
obsession, critique
readied, voluntarily,
unwarranted
society.

(surely assume:
white, well,
and un-wanting;
but caste that observation
not unto others
of course.)

tho, putting
my finger away perhaps
means tacitly to: fuck off,
tho, we feel
that this gesture
is always unacceptable,
yet i think.

(holds up middle finger while smiling)

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.

March 10, 2016

gratitude (only joking)

i would like to give thanks
to the group of artists &
poets for finding myself,
excluding me in what
would be a city musing
hell, the fording grounds
where we share likeness,
but really we don’t, really.
i found better in labored
shit, humored in the mix,
constantly waking to do
something that I didn’t
truly enjoy, living the fear
of hard judgement betwixt
going-ons and so-so works.
yeah, i found it all where
you weren’t, it was good
to not see you there, it
was good to see some actual.

March 5, 2016

just around the corner

“Oh, you’re that poet!”
-Cashier, Surdyk’s

A hang
over should
be called
a caught
under,
and the
Terminal
bar was
a life saver;

The ceiling
fell in
and I caught
fire, but
we put it
out with
plastic cups,
dirty tips &
and a few
forgetful
moments.

*
Two parts around
the corner.

One part a few
blocks away.

Walking home with
half a sandwich.

Long Friday night
St. Anthony main.

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.

February 25, 2016

Different Open Mic, Same Formula

The Wording Out
open mics
at Northrop
are always
a fun experience,
with the ill-timed
comedians,
the dead
mother’s missed
eulogies,
the fancied
subjective
assumed
thoughts of
same same same
injustices
coming
over that
easily acted
Loft literary
formula (EASY!),
maybe if
Some (U) Slam was
more inclusive,
maybe if
certain groups
didn’t exclude,
they would
find others
in their
audience
also wishing
for something
objective,
real, novel,
also wishing
for something
(anything!)
that perhaps
sounds new.

I don’t know though…

***

Stop assuming what people around you think,
write about what you see, your experience.

February 23, 2016

I don’t usually take the bus home, but when I do…

Dim lights fading
as dim feeling,
somewhere,
I am Northeast,
viewing dark
clothed bus seats.
Somewhere wet,
floors and smells.
Hello book,
hello patience,
hello fading sunrays,
hello girl on a bike,
now, inside I wait.
Now, you go,
as I do likewise too.
Hello to hear
a sharp beep
in a moving bus
ringing through.
To get groceries,
to give no fucks,
in spoiled dusk.
How dim it is—it was,
Hanging like this:
And the veiled gone sun
as though I am too,
not here but,
still purgatory…
still full of layered blues,
and hollowed cold,
and late afternoon mist.
Going home, to
just check off lists,
going home I sit.