Posts tagged ‘College’

January 7, 2017

special offer

god, i am not a religious man,
sort of, but i use that terminology

oft to express the feelings of being
in negative cold to retrieve recycling bins

…thought were misplaced because
of horrible vision, getting

the “non-transferable” envelopes hopes,
the kind that are big and feign of checks

to you–the kind you need. the fucking trip
to the door was worth it, i noticed

a missing gutter and my hands froze
on blue plastic and the pumpkin eaten out

from last fall was dead. but god,
getting these letters, offers of credit cards

and debt paid… you want to do it?!,
just do it; hit the donate button:

it’s that easy. these companies. i wonder
who folds the envelope, mails it,

i wonder who licks the seal,
i wonder who cuts the trees

that get torn and thrown into my trash,
too angry and lazy for the recycling.

tell me about an offer on a nice home
because my rent is crushing me,

tell me about free college
because it’s about time for our kids.

and think of those fucking trees!
you won’t… i guess just keep sending

the special offers, to no response,
they inspire, i guess. god. god. god.

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July 29, 2016

advice for students from a post-graduate (survey answer)

Take all chances.
Study abroad.
Do things that others tell you not to do.
Do what you think is right.
Try everything.
Prepare yourself for a career you enjoy from experience.
Labels and titles do not matter.
Always network.
Always be present and visible.
Be different.
Believe in yourself, really.
Have a passion for what you are interested in.
Always, always be early.
And think positive.

January 23, 2016

awake: the play

A poet writes in SE Minneapolis about the trials and tribulations of a Friday night gone mildly awry. He is surrounded by the cat’s meow, a blowing electrical heater, and the buzz of a refrigerator standing in a near vacant kitchen. The sky is overcast mute through slitted shades. He broods in his mildly sarcastic Minnesotan fashion, feeling the pains of last night’s waste while coming to terms with how his workouts aren’t working out. And nothing happens…

scene 1:
to wake in uptown
fully clothed and hot,
recounting bad
pajamas and enough
beer to consume
an entire Heggies pizza.

(and people starve abroad,
and others win
the lottery at home, and he
still tries.)

here,
i’d rather see myself
in Beat coffeehouse
having conversation

about
cutting ties with
negatives, and always
smiling through the shit,

and elaborate schemes…

i’d rather be
confused and
frightened,
than comfortable
in the same
old place.

*
certain days you wake
up away, and certain days
you don’t wake up at all.

*

monologue:
but i won’t wait,
why, why sit back
at the theatre
and watch the
other performers
take what they will?

(all life is
performance art;

even the
bathroom is
theatre.)

monologue 2:
no, it was a nice way
to wake up, in the dark
on the phone with love

at five am,
to need water,
to set the alarm,
to find my glasses to
see it all perfectly
clear in grey light.

(the cold was there
waiting for him just
as it was the night
before, and he went to it.)

scene 2:
i just found myself
at the darkest place before
i came back home
huffing on a cold bike,

and someone at the open
mic knew my name,

still all the words for
the poem were lost
in alcohol and water,
in laughs and sighs.

they snapped at the wrong
parts and guffawed
at pigment jokes;

i guess pink is a funny color.

scene 3:
so, sitting over
simple english and
talking academia
with coffee on my breath

i found the song
i had searched months
for and wrote it down
with my blog link
shamelessly on the back of
someone else’s ephemera,

then i stuck it to a blackboard
and biked with thin layers
from south to north,

to home to shower,
to think i think.

this is where you can find me.
awake.

FIN

December 29, 2015

Ode to Inventing Ireland

we were a dark pink
dawn over Paris

the Libertines of
South Liffey

Gaelic winds
of Aran nights

ferry and bus rides
to another time

we were an ocean away
and of new mind

with wide eyes
of grand sights

abroad we travelled
abroad we’d find

we were inventing
Ireland, we were alive

December 10, 2015

what i found in my food

Here was auburn hair that crawled like
Butter on a resting worn spatula –
From eggs – from earlier,
Running down its seemingly sublet slant

(Along the sink,
At countertop’s edge),

As the sweatshirt on her back
—at dusk, sun crimson red,
With an alabaster background
Lit up like a table lamp.

The silhouette across
The room too;
It moves
With you and the view.

Human matter and digesting food,
Set forth to
Consume, and assume.

What’s the difference? Though…
Part until moved.
Part in truth.
Stomach full,
Now whole—lest these fibers are removed.

November 5, 2015

because I look like this

Things that concern me
more than anything else
stem as the thick roots
of a century old oak

grown through barbwire fencing
and around hardened stones,
immense on a hillside,

entrenched in pastoral lands
so deep and so bloodied, with its past,
it would be hard to tear out entirely,

even if uprooted
we could never forget.

It comes from death stares
so sharp your heart beats faster
and you sweat,

heads turn in a snap on the neck
at the question you just asked—

one which you just simply can’t,
and where,

in a place of research and academia,
a place where words like “fact”, “objective” and “truth”

float up as shit in
a waste facilities plant.

Even with air quotes in inquiry
a person couldn’t truly
reflect, safely,

couldn’t say a “group” idea
had nothing to do with
the individual raising a pale hand,

posing a pure question,
asking of a device with logic

and understanding
used so precisely daily—

an openness that did not come to conclusions,
in ways that would affect me
up the street on the walk,
being called a “devil’s advocate”
and “wrong”.

See, I was bothered because I don’t
believe in the devil… or any Other god.

I pointed at my face and said,
“Just because I look like this?”

They answered with a nodding “yes”.
I told them it was nice
to have this conversation

and walked across the street
dreaming of epiphanies.

November 3, 2015

constant reminder

i supposed
i’d rather listen
to the room’s
pipes bang,
& put the kettle
to the rang,
and have
a clear mind,
than think
about why
i woke up
late last night.
they say the
artist will
starve, but the
cat, and the
bills, and the
debt, and the
truck, and the human
food, and the rent,
all those things
are enough to do
you in. but
i’d rather not
think about that,
those things are
just moments,
and most things
do change.
seems i am
constantly
reminded when
noticing
the colors fade,
and the bare
nude trees,
and the cold
chill in
foreign winds of
new seasons.

October 18, 2015

Northrop – Center Stage

… don’t
try too
hard,

the
truth is
natural.

October 6, 2015

Hey Joe and the Word “Like”

Joe, he kills it in class
with his well-formed questions,
he does—it’s true.

I wish I would have gone
to the same high school as him,
I assume he was popular,
probably played ball.

Alas, I didn’t, alas, I sit far,
far away from his dicey interactions.

Another classmate I sit in a room with—confusedly,
she uses the word “like” more times
than I ever thought understandably possible,

like, oh my fucking god,

if I hear that word once more in rapid succession
I may just leave class early unannounced.

But Joe—back to him, he is like the honey bee that stings,
he is like a one hit wonder from the mid-90s,
he also dies intellectually from his act.

It is tragic like Hamlet, not enough college to know:
let the teacher talk, this is their show.

As a peer I will admit this is fun
to watch and hear and be a part of—

(The professor’s ahem interruption of the grasshopper!)

like the Titanic sinking on film,
like an ungraceful fall on March ice,
or like a public argument growing in volume and irrelevance,

as the instructor says: we are a part of everything…
OOOOWWWWW! AAAAAAHHHHHH! Some theory…
The classroom is full of minds blown.

I enjoy these acts,
but they are painful.

So painful…
Oh yes, but fun.

Education offers much.

September 11, 2015

a passing thought – neurotic

sick with the taste of
exhaustion, caught in throat
with cold wind, radio barking,
pizza sitting, how legs tire,
how body aches–so sore,
tender, cutting, sharpness;
stomach in knots; hours
of night, pushing pillows,
sweating, drooling, shake;
waking, wanting it to go,
tiresome day, morning lows;
semester’s triumphs & wows;
the hue is darker in autumn–
daily highs, found here
in bed dying; living, life,
nose bleed caught in tissue,
she asks, I tell; can’t talk,
doing nothing but packing,
leave on the next day–if i can,
feeling as my co-worker
with a pain in her side: wary;
will they remove it, or am
i just paranoid at a thought?
these remedies come fast,
vile seeds sewn and growing;
if only to fix my fretting mind.