Posts tagged ‘Author’

August 19, 2017

hey, relax!

doing nothing is my god
watching the barometer’s metal bend
chasing words on a page
some milk goes sour
in time for the weather to come contradictive itself,
taste the notes of the coffee
some cheap shite, trash, yum, reflect…
my ecology is paycheck-to-paycheck, not endemic.
presuppose your days and ways,
the window fogs and steams, smeared.
shower tiles beads dew uncountable, attrition, music.
doing nothing is my god, our god, friend:
i worship, i love, and i don’t.
shoot the gap, you have the weekend!
i tell you secular and say “bless you” at a sneeze, really? 😉
but work and leisure, two things;
what is the difference, don’t expound…
like those in a poetry workshop or modern English course,
i say nothing, do nothing, my god…
and of the apathetic sort.
Waiting for God-ot, nothing to do at all.
probably you haven’t read… because you don’t.
just like everyone else with the same ideas;
having the same idea is not diverse or unique.
what is god? she or he or preferred pronoun
is doing nothing too, a lot of it,
and getting praise worthy credit as well, dammit.
so, i’ll be here with my feet up high, relax.
you can worry about it for me.
i ain’t got much time, then pine box.

Advertisements
August 13, 2017

what my wife thinks about what you think about what i write and a blurb about the whaling industry from In the Heart of the Sea

on a candlelit porch my wife implored, inspired and went on
why do you care about what they think?
why do you care about what they think of what you write?
it has nothing to do with them, what you think or compose…
looking for spermaceti candles and fate meaning, i.

reflecting, Nantucket sent those to gather Port Royal Toms to eat
without a thought but hunger; left virgin islands storied infernos,
thought about that and words and writing and language
on a porch serene treasure, old books, good love…
what do you think? wait, nevermind.

bubbling up, i recall her burnt hand expressing white temperatures
on clear glass, how it changes so fast and silence and police scanner siren;
dropping my whisky for a similar purpose; icing thumb: and scroll go.
watching the blue grass grow, not much to see here,
coo-coo clocks and barometers and books of ships and screens
that do keep us safe from what’s out there far away, calling a din.

July 12, 2017

the logic of selling books at a public library

i never got it
while tutoring at hamline/midway
the evening crew
would ready the chairs
get the event set up
and talk
and put cookies out
and put coffee out
and the sun would drain away
in the winter void
and people would come in
and wait and watch
like stand men or trees
and listen
and i would read books with my student
at a round table with a sign
and talk words
and say this and that
and this is what that means
and i would get done
and bundle up for the walk down Minnehaha Ave W
to my warm home and wife and son
and wonder to myself
how could a person
possibly sell a book at a public library
full of books
that any person
could check out for free
with proof of residency
or a driver’s license,
a piece of mail with your address on it.
and that is why i love libraries
on negative 30 degree ice
walking home in wet boots
thinking wow, the sales poets are very bold
or just not that smart
or just i don’t know.
it’s not bad,
i don’t care,
it’s just interesting…

April 13, 2015

Monday Anon Anew

Monday is a rebirth
of the past two days forgotten—
a new moment, a new mindset,
and a new chance.

Though,
we are the oldest
we’ve ever been
right now.

Still,
we are young as is,
as naïve,
as buds on tree branches sprout.

Soft eyes sore,
a window’s breeze of Spring must
through messed hair,
in sharp lights which have come on again
at the rotating of the earth.

Outside is exactly inviting warm.

Here we are,
here we prep,
here this Monday anon anew.

April 3, 2015

To The Library, A Day of Doors

Here with a dashboard view,
sleepy eyes take
the quiet city coming alive,

we are few between many doors,

Falcon Heights and going,
street to street,
community to community,

into the morning routine forgotten
on this early route.

Sitting shotgun
under damp skies heavy,
and fleeting streetlamps,
there waiting is the shielded sun,

we go;

creamed coffee in the center console sea
splashes and waves,
ebbs and flows,
high tide to low,

becoming more clouded,

at each abrupt lurch of fresh tire to ground,
at each crude pothole found.

Out with a love kiss
and a copasetic slammed rusty door,

moving towards
a red-brick building amongst other zombies,
dogs, and cats—I hold the door.

Administration signs we pass: “authorized personnel only”,
keys with their jiggling change sound of agency,
intimately within, feeling special again…

Through vacant hallways which exist resembling tubes
and tunnels and fish tanks—minus exotic fish,
with subzero refrigeration units which are warning: no food (!),
and photos of past passers-thru hugging plaques.

Press a sticky button for the elevator—engage the motion,
ding ding ding, ah…
lonely polished doors open,
step in, and close, to hit the number four…

Wait…
Wait…
Wait…

I should have taken the stairs today…
I think, exercise…

We stop,
and out to a wooden door and a sparkling tile floor,
unclipping keys to enter this cryptic lounge,
no one near, just me here.

Turn in, let the day begin,
and come get your books.

March 27, 2015

Tomorrow Today

And sweet taste on the tongue
takes a person far; a lemon drop atomic bomb,
here and gone as Hiroshima.

Today is made up of
your wishes,
my tasks,
and some trivial thought
between purchases
and cognitive dissonance…

We love for the time, the moment to pass,
the time we sit and wait, we must hate.

Tomorrow didn’t come yesterday.

Never a gripe to regret,
never a sound to forget,
to the blind eye all gore is beauty,
to the deaf cacophony is glory.

Minutes make up days, as pennies do dollars.

Do you walk on by
or pick up and try?

Do you watch close the shtick,
or see the second-hand tick?

Prefixed we sit,
to sat at that,
a breakfast table slow,
and a radio loud,
a thought at mind:

no more cages.

Gone with smoke, I am last year’s joke,
last month’s hope,
and tomorrow’s unattainable dreams.

Now people eat trash,
like whose hands did grace it,
the name makes the food,
and the food tastes much better.

O’ Southeast in you do me;
my body feels the cold
while the waxy hung sun bites
my dry little face.

Laced up and tied down;
we brought the wine,
we brought the rye,
we brought the hateful words,
and the back-pats too—good friends,
how true.

Parts of me, are parts of we,
just in between;

while
on a walk an old car goes by,
it is another with another
life inside.

I wonder,
where do they go right now?

I am right here.

January 21, 2015

The Reality of Free Writing

One hour of purposeful free writing
Had turned to my life portioned in words.
After a second read I knew it was shit,
Moments later the rhyme was absurd.

November 2, 2014

* I DO DECLARE

Wear make-up and carry mace;
-Mixed ideology, mixed taste.
Running all over this place,
Collecting strewn waste.

Prey within the Rat Race.
Prey within the Rat Race.

*
I saw you sitting there,
I do declare.

October 30, 2014

Essen-tial

On this afternoon
Food is of essential;
As Essen is of -to eat
In German Language.

July 24, 2014

Entitlement Changes Everything,

I won’t buy shit I don’t need.
I won’t sell worthless materials.
I won’t attempt to acquire possession,
save foil distraught people.

I won’t sellout my “loved ones”.
I won’t assume the intent of the dead.
I won’t speak implementing conjecture;
spinning cobwebs in your head.

I won’t suddenly change on point;
giving up my morals and ethos.
I won’t stare you in the face,
passing along “truths”- steeped in apocryphal.

I won’t because I can’t;
my spine remains intact.
My brains still function proper,
processing small things, this and that.

My train is still on the tracks,
just coming out of the station.
Presently I sit in thought,
pondering every situation.

I won’t bend to others’ whims.
I won’t listen to frivolous debate.
I won’t exist in sedentary situations,
or act foolishly in haste.

Moreover, I ask the lot,
In a common sense place:
Won’t you do the same?
Won’t you do the same?

So now that I’ve come forward you can take a lesson from me
Put away all your assumptions and let your words flow free.

***

You know my name;
It’s the same as my dad’s.
Everyone “knows” what he would have wanted,
weighing a lifetime, possessions in their hands.