Archive for ‘Poetry’

December 4, 2016

snow day weekend

to salt
the drive,
and sidewalk,
the 67 bus stop,
there is some
old ladies’ and
then mine.
after
pushing
that
not-
heart-attack
pack,
the fluffy
white stuff,
nothing
like it;
the melt
snow, –salt,
the to snow
melt, –salt,
surprise.
this morning
one more
chore
to do…
one more
thing
to find
a meaningful
something
while
breaking your
back
because.

December 1, 2016

fake news/ fake people

fake news
is
actually
news,
like
fake people
are
actually
people.
i mean
think
about it.
how many
fake
plants
do you
see in
your office
each
day, and say:
damn,
those aren’t
real
plants,
i won’t
see
what they
have
to say
about
things.

November 21, 2016

who lost 42- 24 last night and won’t win the Superbowl ever again?

today, Monday, will be
a little more quiet,
a little more
average,
a little more silence,
only because
those fans
of the Green Bay Packers
will be walking
in immense sorrow,
moping in their green
and gold regalia.
Today, i probably won’t
hear about the Vikings’
losing record,
or (maybe) how
we have never won
a Superbowl.
Because yesterday we won.
But now, that doesn’t
matter, those
cheeseheads roll tears,
their symbol, that
which attracts mice,
were simply defeated by
Washington, and “the wind”,
i guess any excuse,
i’ll give it to you.
your silence today.

November 20, 2016

Dude, shut up: the real life discussions of Facebook

dude… shut up.
mom, take
that picture
of me
off of
Facebook,
my hair does not look good…,

KT is always
photogenic.
mom!

*
did you know
you
are still on Facebook?
Terry!
when i
put your name
in it still
comes up.

*
you know
it’s going to
suck when
it costs you
money to
remove photos
from Facebook.

*
just delete that
picture of me;
mom, i told you
which one?
i liked…
i will take it down.
OBVIOUSLY.

*
ok,
what’d you say
which one
did you like,
i didn’t like any
of them…
delete it!
i don’t like
any of them!

*
i might
unfriend you.
Terry’s on
Facebook.
(i can find
myself right here.)

November 19, 2016

self and this house

i realize on self and this house,
more grit than our cat box
in the basement full of shit,
comfort as breast milk warm
where headboards should be,
cold in here as black crucifix
or clear ice formed on old leaves;
the death of fear is certain,
tho, enough with daisy metaphors
and stone subjective imagery:
i understand my mind as so,
and so as such, and this and that…
i realize one day weekends
go so fast to make us ready again,
and that real friends just are,
you really can’t ask for more.
i realize on self and this house,
no doubt the cold, can’t get out.

November 18, 2016

religion: media

what i have learned since last Tuesday,
and the sunny Tuesday before that

which so unceremoniously passed,
is that when someone tells me something

is a true something, it usually is. the labels.
the fears. the concerns. impending doom,

obviously. the end. i understand that
it usually is, and not just some spectacle

to make you watch over there. or closer.
i mean, no one ever cries wolf anymore.

no one really gets paid to say. or maybe i’ve
wasted 2 years of my life for their chance at 4.

or maybe the 67 bus will arrive late today,
so i can wait longer. man, my good ambitions.

and nothing ever changes. here comes the sun
slowly shedding light onto such fancy.

November 12, 2016

what is art?

last night i picked up a Bukowski again and
read something from his THE CONTINUAL CONDITION

then i thought in the parking lot
after the lady behind me bought my lottery tickets
and dark coffee because
the guy behind the counter
in the unwashed and untucked shirts
didn’t know if they accepted credit cards
or not and the line grew,
and no more money came from my pants,

what is art?

rat is art
tar is art
tra is art

i guess anyway you look
at it, those letters are art.

and the lady in line said: take it, no just take it.
and threw $2 on the counter.
she had a gallon of 2% milk and was serious.

like any-thing is any-thing
else.

perhaps decomposition of a loved one
since the year 2014 is art,
like pumping milk from a cow is art.

or maybe since the year 4201 is art.

i don’t know.
don’t i know.

i watched from the car
as breastfeeding went down in the lot
i didn’t want to be followed,
what a major calamity of sorts.

the gas station lights could
sense my growing shame and
how my patience was lost
in staring at walls or looking
for a cd that wasn’t scratched,
hoping for B.I.G..

crystalline frost formed on the vehicles
near the front lawn.
and i am happy they were there.

we rolled up late, an hour of stationary
before we got back on the road
and i tried to dodge deer
where brown and red smears said they died.

like the leaves piled and decomposing
they are tra, or rat, or tar

or art.

whatever you call it it is that.
like those bleeding hearts couldn’t take a loss.
like losing the lottery in america.
like driving at night with desert eyes.
like coming in late without an excuse.
like not needing one, but you do.
like knowing before others and pretending to not.
like apologizing for everyone like you for guilt, your guilt.
like feeling sorry that you don’t.
like telling people to move on in your shoes.

i suppose

maybe that’s why we all drink coffee
and tell our friends what we think.

and one day the sun won’t spin,
so bring a few extra layers,
everyone will be there.

November 8, 2016

“heyday”

on the early TV alone
with my whole rolled oats
sometime this morning
i wonder about
photography of our great city.
or the station programemed me that.
how on earth does one
get a book on all channels
during election season
at the most opportune time,
just months before
holidays like christmas–
where this sort of
coffee table aesthetic is hot?
what kind of names to know?
i mean i want to publish to pay.
oh, and Prince died
and Babes In Toyland are best friends,
just picture that. those stills.
i kind of want to check out his title.
i kind of want a ticket
to that museum to see
the innards royalty didn’t
want anyone to see, privacy: Paisley Park.
now just for money.
seemed like a good guy,
seemed like an artist,
i wonder about connections,
i wonder how this time
on these networks is arranged…
call me, let’s set up a time.
now my oatmeal sets in its bowl,
now the weather and something new.
Blair Walsh is being challenged.
tell us to vote and who for.
read between the programs.
what new text should i buy next?

October 30, 2016

dreary sunday

sunday, when candles burn,
when tired rugs sleep,
when time does nothing
but crawl forward
to the coming future,
when tomorrow is another monday,
much disliked, much despised,
and talk is always so drably
forlorn– such a tragedy.
this is when and how
i beg for ice 9,
i pray for a time machine
to instill religion in me better,
to make sunday slow sabbath.
i could smile longer.
i could be more kind.
i have faith in hope and fate
on this dark dreary sunday,
when i think of new seasons
as plasticed windows droop.

October 28, 2016

loving the art

i am no grant writer,
i keep a simple blog;
as an unsolicited writer,
carte blanche & song.

*

i think you should write too.