Posts tagged ‘Language Art’

August 25, 2015

Amenities

Life out of Stanley
Life out of truck
Life out of city
Life with sandwich lunch

Life out of control
Life stuck inside
Life without aversions
Life between lines

And then,
Life out of time.

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August 4, 2015

Bridges of Northeast

Abandoned train bridges make for the best retreats,
Under empty blue skies which remain always there.
Cotton wood branches waved leaves as a busy fleet,
Fading summer months made all those about aware.

July 9, 2015

Untitled Response To Crowfoot, Blackfoot (StarTribune, Thursday, July 9th, 2015)

It is the flit of
a blue jay’s wings
at daybreak.

It is a potbellied squirrel, tan beige,
on a bent limb in the
summertime.

It is the faint
sweet smell of ripened honeysuckles
on winds getting lost in
a township forest.

It is a reflection of
such life.

It is.

To:
-Crowfoot, Blackfoot
Warrior and orator.

July 6, 2015

Metro Rain

Where the metro rain comes from I do not know.
Maybe it comes from the Gulf of Mexico,
or across outer space deep, or maybe from the hard ground
under my feet. I really do not know where it comes from.
I know I am a percentage of it, but I also know that
I am so bad at math, trying to figure it, with exact percentage,
with an exact equation, would make me sweat good—
lose the water I am made of: essentially I would lose that part
of me, my hydration. I figure it sometimes comes from the sky
because it lands on my head while getting my shoulders wet,
and I can see it falling fast… So, from observation this is true.
I am not partial to its occurrence; sometimes it is to my chagrin,
sometimes it is to my disliking. If the sun were out I would watch it
slip along the rocky mud banks of a spinning Mississippi,
perhaps with a Nalgene bottle full—at a pavilion of wood,
its different forms; my hands would be pulling worms into the air
from a Styrofoam vessel, to pull fish from its filling flow;
we are all full of water, some of us are also full of shit.
Rain let’s shine life, as we sought a tap to fill clean glasses,
polished by it in other ways—endless purpose what it were.
Where the metro rain comes from I do not know,
but sitting inside, for hours on a dry cat-teased couch,
I watched it come down and present itself alive today.
It never really mattered where it came from, it was right here.

June 8, 2015

On Eighth Crow Wing Lake…

a million worlds balanced atop globules
of settled wake and rain, dancing on strung-up
green leathered water lilies in rolling waves.

These beaded reflections, moving,
were a million of you and a million of me;

crystals bouncing with electric light, cosmos lithe,
changing, above tadpole, water beetle, and autumn’s fallen leaves.

***

No question these microcosms stand in wait,
bobbing on a clear lake,
on each movement thrown within,

contemplating nothing—save for seen,
by those who pass in man-powered vessels,
just a moment in time, taking what they can.

***

Seagulls carried shadows
above their lives on a lake.

Here, undulating up and down,
and many worlds away.

May 24, 2015

Touched by Sweetness

Having impregnated
a mind
of pulsating flowers;
touched by sweetness
they stir,
coming in
at full bloom.

May 13, 2015

Alternative is the New Cliché

To post artistic criticism today is
to paint graffiti
on a chameleon’s coarse back
and hope for intellectual longevity.
To go against the grain, razor,
a sacrifice must be made—those who disagree give up
and fall into the fold: forty a week,
snowflakes in the sun.
There will be flesh covered in blood.
With ease we quote Bukowski and Palahniuk;
though who are they to us,
us to them? Thoughts?
Good ideas without action.
Bad prose and poems at times come in good form,
and are closely read: this by example.
A dream is only a dream if you don’t realize it as a goal;
awoken to obsession, to stop at nothing,
or anything, depending.
Though commitment,
though a true course,
though a chameleon’s coarse back.
How long they maintain.
Qadri said he is not the same person
he was 6 years ago,
6 months ago,
6 weeks ago,
6 days ago,
6 minutes ago,
6 seconds ago.
I am though
slightly different,
one closer to being perfect.
…I guess I’ve changed
my mind.

April 22, 2015

the beauty of writing

To the Workshop Gods, to the Weekend Artists, to the Loud Talkers, to the Local Name Droppers, and to those who say they do important things for the art without taking action. Good Job. TS_

***

The beauty of writing
is sharing your words,
spreading your ideas,
whether it is
unique or not.

It is touching keys
with love,
fucking them,
forgetting the edit,
and doing what you want
just because.

Writing is either part of your life fully,
or great distances far away,
or in between;
it can come back at any moment,
and it can sit there and stay.

Writing is expressing yourself
not for those around you to critique,
it is for you,
it is with you,
it is by you,
in all the experience that you’ve seen.

Your everyday trivial
is more poignant than
yesterday’s raved about
new modern messiah.

Writing can be a target,
with a big bright red mark on your back to attack,
it can show humor
and sadness
and fun
and inspiration to act.

The beauty of writing
is it is actually you,
no matter how weird,
how rough,
how edited,
how wrong,
how the labels others choose to use,
or who it will prove to confuse.

Writing is religion, Allah, Christ, Academia, Professors, and God,
it is verses out of rhyme,
it is punctuation out of time,
and it is of topics trite,
and themes grotesquely odd.

The beauty of writing
can be called flawed by all,
but when it comes time to write,
to share,
to express,
to give,
the loudest have nothing at all.

April 14, 2015

We Think

I thought,
You thought,
I thought,
You thought…

February 10, 2015

Grey Sky Day

Overcast clouds open to
A downfall of frozen crystals;

Which sparkle broken on the ground,
Under foot.

A straight wind carries me off – strong,
To far, to present, to past;

Grey sky day
Take me away.

Weather which is not to be overlooked.