Posts tagged ‘Hip Hop’

April 10, 2015

Minneapolis Streets

Hennepin
Central
Franklin
Nicollet

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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 20, 2015

Interactive Image (you and me)

Sometimes great minds think alike, think local,
some don’t think at all.

I have to put on deodorant today
in order to become an average human being.

All the while a naked spoon holds a naked cherry in the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden;
now that’s art, now that’s smart, now that’s in a park.

And then we have the Thought Police to condemn what,
to patrol what,
to portray what,
to convey what message?

IDK

How things have happened,
evolution is real.

No one single person is JC or PC or perfectly-,
we just are—you and me.

Categorizing and “knowing” is impossible without error.

See,
labeling those into groups would be easy,
yet we place with sedimented phrases, universal,
adding variance to that idea, disparaging,
then spreading like disease,
ones with history—you and me.

There is no describing,
living is art.

September 21, 2014

Seasonal Realism

Strong Autumn winds blow in;
Through trees, on a whim- these limbs,
Birds,
and shadows made of them.

Exhausted year, once again…

Sincere,
Biers and tears,
Free and easy,
Mind’s been cleared.

Coming up wasted and frustrated-
Elliot Smith came up roses,
Empty handed impatience,
Changing mindset with practiced poses.

Some of the best luck of all time,
Some of the unluckiest best times,
Some logic takes heavy loads off minds.
Some laziness, what!? -The awful crime.

Round corners above pavement,
On a bike,
Life is dangerous,
Backpack filled with book pages,

I promise…

Summer’s gone recently, but not for long,
This weather; indifferent, right, or wrong.

The Midwest is at least unique in that it is unpredictable in clime.
And I imagine Simon and Garfunkel will enjoy their vodka and lime.

September 14, 2014

Money Does Not Matter (Lavish Habit)

A weekend’s worth of cigarette smoke.

In lungs as it was,

Now

An empty yellow pack
on a cluttered coffee table;
an Indigenous effigy affixed on the front,
laying creased and crushed.

Then:

Dirty caked pealing fingers
Hangnail cuts a cloth uneven
Expensive wines stained flesh
Blood let late this summer that went

I spent two weeks in one night…

On:

Raw Oysters,
sitting next
to
translucent green Seaweed
whole and Uncooked Quail Eggs
there they lay
bei
pinked cuts
of Expensive Fish.

Let’s not forget the numerous rounds of cloudy white sake.

Champagne flow pained frontal lobe.
Nights let grow, as days let wane.
Through campus- through school,
on legs that bend- shooting pain.

Feeling as crumpled paper; trashed.
Sprawled across the lawn in the grass,
People playing games as I move past,
A backpack fully packed, on back.

When: all of sudden preparation for another week began.

And I have to leave it at that.
Money does not matter.

July 27, 2014

Things just concern me

Vote for Logic,
put Robots in Office.
Mandatory polygraph tests
for candidates assuming the role…
Don’t fret though,
I’m partial.

They say ‘follow the leader’,
and ‘to each their own’,
in unison,
broken record on dusty gramophone-that old.

Tupac and train-bridges,
Como and El-P,
at the corner market,
buy fluids then flee.

Child yet full-grown.
Can’t say won’t.

Rationality and realism postponed
… For gold,
by cold souls,
hard-truths thrown like stones,
you know.

One asks questions;
starts trouble,
causes problems,
-Iconoclast-
the ground rumbles,
and is labeled
Fast as on the double.

Then you forfeit all.
No more missed calls.

C’est la vie
“That’s Life”

Caught between wrong and right
and day and night;
and delight and plight.

I digress.

My friend,
I’m all right (spelled right).

Things just concern me.

December 27, 2013

Smile

Smile more,

Whether good bad or ugly,

 

Who cares?

It looks lovely.

 

Big wide grimace yellow inside from all the living-leaves me livid.

Taught lips your teeth live within.

 

Open your mouth more for every happy moment you’ve been given,

And please just smile.

November 11, 2013

Free Money

As if others don’t know it,

As if labels couldn’t show it.

A lot of them talk what they want.

Mostly their walk is below their thoughts.    

 

More importantly (near Starbucks at Lind Hall):

 

I found two pennies on the ground this morning,

I bent down.

 

Not too demanding of a task,

Yet it was:

Change of mind.

Exchange, interact, a reaction of mine.

Someone had left this in my path as I passed.

 

Pay penance for epiphany.

Couldn’t care of the cash, as if it were a hundred dollar bill in the trash –

Composure relaxed.

 

I guess we try to save.

 

Avoiding slippery slopes,

Remembering my lines,

Laugh like joke.

Choke like smoke.

 

Here in due time.

Thoughts steadily moving towards hope.

Belief, what a crime!

 

And at this moment I glanced at my watch, just out getting coffee.

Ask me awfully- Why I look down…

You lost me.

 

Eyes move as I measure the cost.

 

I promise ADHD.

 

You never know what could be found.

Things what won’t happen again.

Until you next look at the ground.

November 8, 2013

South, Prairie du Chien, Steamboat Travel

South, Prairie du Chien, Mississippi River Valley

Terry Scott Niebeling

 

Wake up in Prairie du Chien, Nähe Le Villa Louis.

 

Lay cold to the touch, on a rolled up sleeping bag.

You are not within.

You are without.

 

So early you feel like askin’.

-Time is it?

5:30 AM.

 

Surrounded by what you need:  Water.

Drank so much it made you so thirsty.

 

Noise from the generator wakes you-

A voice, Dave, a question-

He, a tall blond first mate, imagine rugged, stands above.

 

We refuel.

 

River smell rich, insects, and spider’s webs remain about you.

You ponder, your eyes shift, how many did you swallow?

 

Sit perched below the bar rail, a kicking spot.

-A useless lot.

-Where you squat.

You sad sit this shit.

Might as well sit out.

Close to go, avoid the hitch.

You have all the wherewithal to slouch.

 

Sleep eating, drinking-peeing, while hardly sleeping through the night.

Mop in hand, Dave asks again, cleaning a mess.

 

I pissed the deck, didn’t I?

 

He says, “Get Up!”  You say you haven’t slept.

Mums the word, I am told.

 

Sore throat sun in your eyes- weak dried out post drunk haze in your mind.

 

The smell of gasoline-or oil, or whatever powers this big bright red paddle.

 

Feels like a stiff neck, stiff legs, and a stiff arm, feels like it just hit me, my alarm.

Feels like a stretch.

 

Over the next few moments everyone showed.

There was an hour’s ride home-no service, no phone.

 

Took in whitecaps and tree tops along the drive.

Times like these along the river so full of insight.

 

Thank you for the ride, it’s good to be back in La Crosse.

Now Goodbye.

September 19, 2013

See

I cannot summon the blank page to write for me.

To tell forth what I see.

I see therefore I tell:  

 

I see you, I see me.

I see us, I see we.

 

I see all is well.  

 

I see rain, I see trees.

I see an instant flee.

I see green.

 

I can’t see smells.  

 

I see people being discrete while dancing in dirty sheets, and such…

Cripples hobble on broken feet, and such.  

Lacking while we complain to beat, and such.  

 

I see numbers, … 

 

And they bemuse…

 

I think I see too much, 

Because I’ve become confused…

 

 

I see logic in the choice to choose.

I see a burning cigarette and an open bottle of booze.

 

I see, oh, wait…  never-mind, I forgot.  

 

I’ve seen a lot.  

 

All I see is proof.

Do you see too?