Posts tagged ‘Langauge’

November 12, 2017

sunday apex

Beautiful Sunday morning
dark AM morphing from
empty pews’ attrited time
to quiet hymns breathing sigh

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May 13, 2017

he died doing what he loved

the day before my dad died
my grandma told me to call him,
she handed me the phone and i dialed.
he answered and asked me to visit him in Lanesboro.
per usual, of course i couldnt,
i was busy marrying my cousin
and her new husband,
i was to fish brook trout and hunt morel
at an expansive farm in Highland, MN.
he told me about how midget strippers
were from that area
and he told me he could fly me in a plane
back to the Cities on Sunday. and he could truly.
but i get sick on planes, ex: my whole life.
i would tell him that so he didnt feel bad.
i laughed, so did grandma–a-mid-dementia.
now the cat barfs on the windowsill in St Paul
and i cant move to clean it.
you read, he told me this story.
that was the last i knew of his soul.
now i want an old motorcycle and three kids,
i want a lot of land in the countryside
and to own my own business, sort of like him.
i want to tell rude stories and make people laugh.
all around me is this fabric to weave,
even that old dreaded piece of a phone call
i hide because it worries and bothers
and turns me 4 years younger, less jaded and
more naive. i see him leaving every day is a possibility.
i just wonder when he will come back.
and some believe in ghosts and gods and scripture,
i havent seen much in the way of poltergeists or apparitions;
the afterlife exists now in tongues and no more.
i only feel the ones i never knew
and could care less to just pass
and call my imagination gone astir
or drunken views taken in the timid darkness.
i heard he died doing what he loved a lot,
and when that happens they say it is good.

November 6, 2016

making it ok

perhaps, in a country where we have made it
commonplace acceptable
to meticulously disrupt and replace
those in far-off scapes

at the push of cold button–now, also
we find it ok to explain which might
or could happen so dire to us
while something right in front

of our very eyes happens.  Imagine that,
we the people see the foreshadowed future
as more imposing, more real than our present
which stalks about us, which tells us

to be concerned for. think of that day
that hasn’t happened yet, and be worried.

October 1, 2016

keys

i have keys to define me,
a crowded key ring full
for opening doors to…
going from here,
here to there and back.
going where ever.
these keys define me,
golden and silver keys–
some crowned with plastics–
their lovely worn patina,
pressed so hard as
to their cold metal form.
looped at my wide hips,
locked on a levered loop.
reaching for somewhere,
hands going any place,
so many keyholes to poke.
turning, antiquated mechanisms.
this life of access…
she tells me my keys
weigh me down so much,
pants drop loud to the floor.
long day of carrying on.
must weigh an actual ton,
or must weigh like
a couple hundred pounds…
something pretty heavy.
but so important, the masters are,
they’re “*” adorned;
if you lose them, –fuck,
they have to rekey it all.
literally, not just given out
to anyone who walks into the joint.
a heart attack for misplacement.
this is no joke.
i keep mine with my “life-keys”.
told as the very day
they first came to me.
i did not coin that term,
but it is truly endearing.
and it is truly important: these keys.
kind of like where you go.
and how you get to where you go.
these keys to define me.
these keys to define you.
these keys to define we.
defined by these words.
these are not my words,
someone else’s…
they are used to define these keys.
these are not my words.
they come from the past.
doors with no keys.
invisible and weightless, and free.

* a specific letter.

September 17, 2016

Life of Bella, the Dog’s Perspective

outside sidewalk.
ruff!

other dogs OUT THERE!
ruff!

underneath
the maple trees.

***

what can i
put
in my mouth
and chew? ….

***
i smell something:
a sock.

maybe i’ll eat it
and shit it
out in the
backyard later…

get yelled at.

***

no. i’ll eat
this peanut butter

toast right here
on the table.

play with my toy.

September 16, 2016

pressing press

there are no carte blanche,
genuinely autonomous
scribes in this city.

everything for novel;
muse: money, fame, cohorts–
certain derivatives of old…

they want to be noticed
but not for such reasons,
for something like gods.

Zum Beispiel: nothing is fair,
i lost my one love,
no body understands me,
and something about trees.

June 28, 2016

rivers and proverb

Rivers, pathways
for those who crave to float.

June 12, 2016

structure

!
:
;
.

July 6, 2015

The Smoke Of Canadian Wildfires

Milky veiled were silhouettes of downtown buildings from 280 at rush hour,
Wildfire smoke of Canada had pushed thru blanketing the humid heartland.

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.