Posts tagged ‘existing’

October 26, 2015

where to go?

wondering as an adult
the meaning
of money of property
of pomp of present
predicament
why we try so hard
wasting our time
in-doors at desks
to be put into
a box within the earth
as if we hardly noticed
the outside
air and how it was sweet
how eyes hurt at the sun
unnatural
if only to be there
and take it rather
than away and not,
to be what a part you were
of something
anything
the kettle bubbles
the radio barks
the morning begins
where to go?

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October 13, 2015

growing old

i would open yawn
but i am too tired,
i would full stretch
but i can’t move;
this cold morning
on this stiff floor
has me wondering
reaching, searching–
an aging body,
stuck in this time,
wholly consumed.

June 25, 2015

The places we’ve seen (have seen us)

Motion reflected between where you are and where you will be;

Void for a shadow where you were, ever lying in wait to reconvene.

March 22, 2015

Perfect Artist

Sharing small town concepts,
language, in hopes to pave a path;

at a bar stool conversation,
after an empty whisky shot throat-sting,
as beer bubbles trace a 1/3 full pint glass.

One local could move forward with art,
or make it easy—take a step back.

Laugh , and seize the moment…
I think about it…
I say: but the proof is only if it kills you,
your art,
Bukowski said that,
I sort of believe the man.

We are not perfect artists, really—no one is,
the evidence is: we are still alive, mostly.

See: I’ve been to a few funerals;
I know the end of my story will be
surrounded by a shovel, dirt, words, and a box.

Then, a man I don’t know will tell others about me.

There’s advertising.

(The real artist is the priest who doesn’t know you acting like he does,
he swears to god. You were good, though god doesn’t understand death.)

Then, no more art will come out of you,
but they will hear it.

That is the perfect artist and art.
That is the truth, perhaps.

March 15, 2015

A Sleepy Sunday in Thunder Bay

Snow fortresses wall vacant early Spring streets,
under a shadowed loom of port buildings and storefronts,
near silt, stone, and trash;

a bay city industry,
north in a blanket of cold, under veiled clouds,
welcoming those coming through,
as Lake Superior holds puzzle-pieced ice in the fore,
central view a downhill road.

And on culture, are you Finnish yet?

Exchange rates and customs await;
crossing lines, affecting time;
to transcend this border
is to travel into the future.

On one side you are 5pm on the other you are 6.
Bonjour!

Coordinates do not matter,
to warmer unfamiliar dwellings after a night under stars,
in conifer and winter’s accumulation.

Now, here waitresses speak of our home,
and her visit—of the Twin Cities,
mentioning the food,
the night life,
the scene,
and how here is better in the next season.

We are visiting Thunder Bay,
with cats and coffee,
at an evident reader and traveler’s house on a sleepy Sunday.

March 5, 2015

People Today:

My God is
My Phone.

January 20, 2015

The Little Things We Do

We wake in the predawn.
We take warm showers.
We tie tight our laces.
We walk through few doors.
We take in the bright light.
We move down the walkway.
We step through the snow.
We start this new day.

January 5, 2015

Drinking the Water

Just think,
We are made up of 60% water—

So, if we drink water,
From a different land,
From a different city,
From a different spring,
From a different past, present and future,

Do we become made up of something entirely different?

October 31, 2014

Small Parts of Us

Balled tissue found in my pocket,
Crumpled, asymmetrical too,
Holding browned stained spatter,
Amongst dried tears of proof.

Discovered in seldom worn jacket,
Once you were tucked deep inside;
Producing contents as pure magic,
Tiny parts in my mind come alive.

Last I wore you to a wedding,
Then we heard passing bad news.
I was standing dressed in all black,
Together we were singing the blues.

I tucked you away just safely,
For another day to come;
I found you on this morning (for instance),
Now, I’ve been struck dumb.

Little things we keep, held on to so tight,
Parts of us small, which make up our lives.