Archive for ‘write’

September 13, 2018

Mac Miller and Donald Trump and Lil Pump and Theories, they are all good to some, and not.

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***

we can safely say
that Donald Trump DEFINITELY caused
the hurricane–and every other problem in our lives,
set to possibly strike, today.
(Right?! I feel that is what the news is telling me…)
that’s a real sentence, like the news:
allegedly, possibly, here’s my opinion: fact-checked.
tell your Facebook friends in real life about it.
at the same time, in real time,
i ponder revenues and gains
of crises and who pays for the news about possibilities.
(that’s one aspect of an event and objectively real.)
i ponder what if it doesn’t happen?
(i am an economist. a fiscalist. a realist. a human.)
surplus: like gas for escaping.
surplus: like lumber to board up windows.
surplus: like food and supermarket staff…
surplus: of water and winds and clouds, as reported.
petrol to move product to get to you.
.. then again, other tragedy, Mac Miller died, heard a story.
now, i want to start a podcast
called conspiracy theory dad or responsible millennial parent,
get artist before i die… “he wrote this and that.” “Amazing.”
but everyone has a podcast.
everyone makes music and writes words.
everyone is political scientist ready to expound.
everyone is a progressive poet, #RESIST.
everyone is Facebook famous.
everyone is a human being and the same.
everyone has bad days and is at times sad and wrong.
my dad died. i believed in debt. labels define me daily.
told i would never. told i couldn’t. i did.
no matter what i do, anyway, it’s because of how i look.
maybe become a Christian again. maybe.
i believe everyone is good and can achieve if they believe
until they leave. but Mac Miller today.
he filmed a video in a coffin a while back, alive.
self-fulfilling prophecy has him there now still inside.
he wrote a song about Donald Trump, the president,
causing storms and Stormy Daniels news, and pointed views,
read Wikipedia about it on accident a day or so ago.
nothing new, like history.
wow, that all means nothing to me.
wow, that all means something to me.
it’s not like paying debt or working hard or having a plan.
not being involved with consumer debt and ads in the news.
they get you to buy, get you to buy into it…
present an event, present an option to buy, present why.
or, it’s not like
making a sandwich or changing a diaper or getting screamed at.
it’s like asking for a handout and
expecting it as if we were (fill in the blank).
this poem sucks, no potential, and Lil Pump sells millions, fuck!
i am happy for him though, he seems happy too.
he doesn’t cause storms and is alive.

***

Hello.  Do you consider yourself a helpful person? If so, consider donating to keep the poetry on my site free to all. Any amount helps, even a penny. Thanks!

PS: WordPress does NOT pay me for the ads you see all over this page, they make money off of my writing through these advertisements.  I don’t receive a dime.  So anything truly helps.  🙂 

Keep this site free!

Donate at: https://www.paypal.me/TSNiebeling

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August 25, 2018

believe in you

you can craft a life better now, think, you.
no excuses, no fair, no perfection, nothing at all.
no history too much for we animals.  today.  yes.

hard work every day, daily.  grind. all. moments.
sharp, clear compass.  fast, go, fly. weightless.
no obstacle not fragiled to dust.  bridges do fall.

when we believe.  believe in you. now. now. now.

***

Do you consider yourself a helpful person? If so, consider donating to keep the poetry on my site free to all. Any amount helps, even a penny. Thanks! 🙂

Donate at: https://www.paypal.me/TSNiebeling

May 5, 2018

The American Underdog

The underdog is the
all-American hero.
They have no chance,
no hope to win, everything
against them. But with
astonishing effort and self-belief
they make the impossible possible.
It’s a beautiful thing.
The American Underdog inspires.

April 21, 2018

(welcome to minnesota) how to talk about what is important

while many are out
protesting gun violence
and the moronic, petulant
politicians
that they hate for their hatred (irony),
transit workers are being
beaten in the streets to silence,
Minnesota families are being taxed
beyond belief to silence,
and social media is acting big brother to silence.
i am not sure that we all hear.
but you don’t
care, and you are there.
go fund me about it.
go start some new petition.
go join a herd of same.
i have too truly.
it is my true duty.

April 4, 2018

shells of us

judging a book’s cover, imagine my face imaging.
infinite sides to a story, to a story’s story, but i know.
my flesh tells a tale, probably, as yours does too.
drawn in the blood of i forget them, never met, who cares i guess.
Passover at Easter, some pink ham in me again, belching.
nothing like anything. nothing like i just exist.
broken short nails, overgrown cuticles and shining bald spots.
adult acne keeps me younger than you might think i am.
alphabet soup of words keeps me sane.
reflections of thin air, in thin air scares, wisps.
clowns were in that movie of course, dark rooms, found footage.
still, i see apostles for anything relevant: novel sorts.
new, spring, green, now, on top of the every-thing, any-thing that is
trending hashtag section of their Twitter feeds.
until tomorrow’s Godzilla prowls painting a new-thing to hate,
until the next big no-thing, the next day.
then you do what they say, like clockwork spinning good, wait.
and you want to be different, unique.
then you tell them how much you can relate.
i guess they covered this on the cover. forget this poem.

January 20, 2018

some new problems came up on the 16 bus, so did you think the snow was bad, tell me what you think about the weather and the Vikings games i need to forget everything else and pretend everything is awesome…

snow out the window sinks
tightens and stretches
like the budget that we forgot to mention.
a 16 bus floats down University avenue,
Green Line aside; all the bars i can’t visit.
man behind the wheel says peek-a-boo
and hello and hey and whistles.
“i’ll stay inside for the Superbowl,”
but it’s triple overtime i think, line the pocketbook.
guy who doesn’t pay the fare: he looks like you!
i know, i love it and smile to my self.
in a basement studio with no meaning.
in a basement studio language, meaning, lofty.
to Aldi for diapers pickles and popcorn.
no more phone, calls on Google Home.
what if god was one of us? just a sloth like one of us.
2018 tragedies carried over from last year and the 90s.
i want to be bob dylan, i want everyone to love me.
everybody wants to be cats. dance the silence…
that’s just about as funky as you can be.
still the tears pile up.
they are puddles piled as metaphors high as the sky.
some other poet could write it better probably.
one thing goes wrong, next a million.
who isn’t tired, who isn’t trying their best?
no worries though, budgeting.
never been on a better diet, 3 notches in my belt.
grow muscle, grow bitter about society, lose weight: dad diet.
friends wives call to sell health, well…
tell the ads to go to hell.
we literally can’t afford to buy anything right now, for years.
AND i thought we were friends?
new phone, sorry who is this, i lost your number again…
shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
the snow sinks and turns to brown water.
all thoughts of fall and crisp leaves and warm sleeves.
please help me make the rent so i
can make the daycare so i can teach English
and get 7 on reviews when i need a 10
and their internet is at fault, shithole internet.
i wonder if it is mine and speed test and it’s fine.
project Fi treats me like a child.
i am blue davy dee davy da… blue.
my bank treats me like indentured servitude.
then reading memos on fact-based privilege.
tell me more about me that i don’t know about me.
the way i go, i am a pale robot, i am a terminator.
with emotions, with new days, between oceans.
the way i go i talk about the snow.

January 18, 2018

I wonder how much #Wordpress makes for these advertisements…

we are the coffee pot high marks,
cold shower goose pimples,
cold shell outdoors,
adverts between posts
machines making money, the most,
and living on piqued hopes.
i wonder where they come from?
reality attuned–or askew?
skilled in many topics,
including topics like you,
including flying to the moon,
including AC in June.
but that’s logic anyway.
still no idea really.
can’t care: too many mouths to feed.
too many days not fishing,
too many walks in the weeds.
i still see my dad in me.
haven’t visited that stone though.
like elvis, tupac, and biggie.
somewhere exotic, secret home, alone, you know.
i am cheap coffee grounds, again.
barely breakfast, usually little lunch.
no inheritance.
words between ads that don’t pay me.
but i pull for that company.
thanks wordpress.
thanks, now i care.

December 23, 2017

20 degrees outside twin cities

what we have here in real life.
it’s 20 degrees outside twin cities.
that could be a hotel.
this brickpath could be a house.
the sky is a sheen marble.
tell me what you think, what else?
it’s 20 degrees outside twin cities.
could take my chopper gloves off.
could lose this woolly hat.
because my head in the clouds
and there is no one around, that.
it’s perfect outside, twin cities.
there’s no reason to hide.
nothing but numbers and times
nothing but humans and climes
nothing but nothing, all right.
yet some would complain.
yet still some wouldn’t mind.
what we have here in real life.
what we have here outside.
i don’t think i mind.

November 28, 2017

iPresence

MN: land of infinite dusk,
this time of year again, comes on strong
like Old Crow or Evan Williams or let downs.
those arguments last longer,
depthless debate, soulless embrace–stalling
the shades–undrawn, hanging,
that’s life they say,
to each their own they say,
cast their shadows like Slender Man at Eagle Bluff,
throwing shade like raw hate (on character)
and Halloween scares on 10/31: no porch lights,
no needs, no worries
just wanting… how to relax, kick back,
when our day has terminal cancer
and our moments are surely gone
and our time is on autopilot, disconnected,
all decided before us?
and for what?

go protest, iPresence.
can’t even, i see.

November 22, 2017

maybe hate is love in disguise

the thing about hating on another’s artwork
is inspiring, i suppose.
i realized this the other day.  that
when someone hated on my artwork it was
more of a show of love.  (it confused tho)
one’s endearing compassion to say.
notice, they noticed and expressed
inspired as it were,
that indelible stated word
so inscrutable, they called my artwork “gay” .
how they used language so well to tell
what was on their expansive mind, so kind.
and in kind i thank them for the brain power passed, twas amassed.
O’ lovely comments like bricks hit w/ light yesterday afternoon
like the bright smile of my great child, or his laugh,
like making it home no deers dead on 52 south.
nothing like it.  dying sliver of a moon on some purple horizon,
no stressful drive, no worry.
things just happened that way, even replies, they say,
sometimes beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
sometimes that beholder is a troll-bot somewhere.
sometimes beauty is a subjective idea.
anonymity is a gem to be polished,
is a life to be assessed by everyone always.
felt good waking up to that notification.
felt good to just think about it in appreciation.