Posts tagged ‘imagine’

May 17, 2017

reinventing the wheel

adulting is a non-stop everything, everywhere and always. no more mac-n-cheese naps with mommy and mr. rogers. keep the bathroom open. listen for the monitor. wake up early, that’s late. eat later, after the feeding. get used to it. dont try.
try not to complain. the heat will turn up. the cold will come. the furnace will die. never really had AC, so… the bills will grow higher in a pile until they start to call your phone from unknown numbers that look familiar. growing. like your gray hairs. like your thin patience. like your elongated nose and drooping ears. coffee stained teeth black holes between. like the grass when you let it go for 2 weeks. and still, humans turn to antique glass. fragile to the touch, sagging at the bottom, blemished for worth. thicker and distorted. probably gravity we blame. and the wheels will stop. and the wheels will fall off. kick them tho. be ready to get down and dirty and fix it, even if you aren’t a pro. that’s how it goes. a new something for you to find a new way to fix a new something. reinvent the wheel why don’t ya? –for gods sake. or try to imagine a time when and where things get much easier and you grow softly younger and everyone thinks positively the same, that they are happy too… and you can keep your wisdom at that.

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December 15, 2016

a few days of cold

perhaps heavy layers
might block
the -20whatever
weather,
perhaps
truth is what
you believe;
perhaps shovels
and salt will
kill the snow.
perhaps tylenol
cold & flu relieve.

November 17, 2016

there are no part-timers in a capitalistic world.

true activism is
very important,
especially to
the career activist,
because
even if there
isn’t a problem yet
there is still
rent to pay.

and perhaps always
some imagination
to make.

July 26, 2016

dreams grow underground

one time, i had a dream
about thought, and then
i forgot. it was about
how everyone made up
excuses to why they were
wronged, and how i got
stuck in a tunnel under
the city; it was full of
graffiti, and smelled of
fish, and i floated on a
boat out into whatever
way the river carried me
while others watched their
screens so closely to
not miss me in the boat
just floating on by in
whatever wronged manner
i had been exposed to:
something about what i
looked like and attitude.
something about dad & god.
then i woke to beepings.
then i woke up to glare.

January 30, 2016

when someone dies, you know

vivid
energetic
life,

to a
faded
bag
of effervescent
flesh,

inanimate
void,

a torn
latex glove,

a sack
seeped through.

bone
meal.

iron.

film.

i am here
right now.

i am
fading.

October 12, 2015

imagine expression

that world you’d dreamed
that thought you’d heard
had only happened for you
as if it had not occurred

September 14, 2015

uptown shine

exactly knowing & accurate
judgement are as frequent
as authenticity in the bar
lights & sidewalks of uptown.

August 17, 2015

Faces that were there (Less Dead)

I saw a reflection of a painting

of smiling faces
across a plastic desk display;

Each crack & line came shown,
each emotion came expressed.

And even in that brief one-off moment,
compared to vis-à-vis
with the ever-connected living,

they come across as less dead.

August 14, 2015

American Mammal

A bright sun crawls over
a hot sunroof to meet
the working day,
as bulbs on a computer screen flash,
amass the made up page.
Men and women slip
underneath, characteristics
become unaccounted for.
Unknowing they go, thinking alone,
believing in bold font & sharp tones—
subjective as fact, living each & every
day for a quick read, drink, and a sweet snack.
Then they are taken, as every other,
to a grand pasture, heaven.
Set out free on their own accord—
until a fence is met.
How quickly their heavy chains they forget,
how relaxed their time was spent.

They are mammals all the same,
animals until their dying day.

July 8, 2015

Minneapolis Offers A Melting Pot Literary Scene

Sure, they tell you to
join their literary groups
in order to get your words read,
in order to get your art noticed,
in order to make an impression on
the blossoming local scene.

Well, it’s just that: local,
and it still is, that’s it.

And a person can become
an organization alone.

Few think about a broad world
where 9 billion people might enjoy
everything or nothing that the creative
text you wrote has to offer…

Yeah, I think, gatherings are good for some—
those who need crutches for strong legs,
or those who need stitches for band aids.

Those who need editors
to change their ideas
so they will sell
and morph into comfortable writers.

I need approval
from institutions to feel good
about myself,
imagine that.

That would have to be
my anti-motto, something I truly avoid.

Ha! Such jokes…

Years back no one would read
new cognitive prose,
my free work, no one would talk
about it,
zero recognition—I certainly wasn’t overseas then,
and I still am as called before
a “failed writer”.

Everyone was doing their own thing;
others were not as important,
it was about self—well, selfishness,
but on the side there was
a feigned pack mentality.

The only change they wanted
was the change they made.

Now poets go around
and pretend as though
everyone in the Cities
should get involved,
because what they were doing
back then, individually didn’t work,
so lets band together.

It didn’t pan out for them.
Their dreams came only at REM.

So, now they organize cliques,
they establish large groups into
bad plays on high society hierarchy,
the kind of thing that real
artists have vehemently loathed.

They set their own rules, now,
and their own guidelines—
if you can’t beat them join them—
yeah, good idea.

What a theory,
such lack of heart.

I think in this case
to become a part of it,
to get to the epicenter,
to get to the whole,
to be welcomed into this special circle,
the imaginary self-actualized poet,
non-starving artist,
famous, you-know-me sort of thing,

you would have to admit defeat,
you would have to admit you lost,
and that your initial passions
were complete shit.

You would probably have to change your ways,
attempt to be more like them—
assimilate, like the rest,
figure hip dress, obscure verse,
employ ten-dollar words,
cloned topics—of course gendered,
racial, anthropological, progressive,
and leftist political,
try for universal acceptance, right here.

***

Yawn, I say,
describe a situation,
an actual event:

CC was on 4th street SE at the bus stop,
she had forgotten my name,
her lips were red,
she said she had a new job.

I rode away on a bike
while passing out flyers.

***

I mean, you might as well kill progress,
just so your road is less rocky.
Leave change by the wayside,
never go against the grain.

A conformist mentality
will help you fit in better,
don’t ya know?

Your personality, your ideology discussed
only in past-tense phraseology and terms,
it all must go.

More of the same than Minnesota lakes.

But then you think about
how you were once a unique person,
an artist, that no one read,
no one cared about,
and how it was fun doing what you loved.

People read, they were baffled, confused,
or were turned off—or became aroused.

Now you do it to please others,
while not pleasing yourself,
while pandering to their ways.

They stare, they clap, they record,
they namedrop, to charm the masses, for a club,
to be accepted, to be loved for being
something that they are entirely not.

No way.

See, I imagine that.
I fancy fickle easy artists,
they travel in bands
with big words and little action.

One would have to sell off
their creative soul
to even try to get involved.

I imagine fellatio costs less,
either way they get ahead.

Am I in Hollywood?
It’s so confusing.