Posts tagged ‘language arts’

April 21, 2018

(welcome to minnesota) how to talk about what is important

while many are out
protesting gun violence
and the moronic, petulant
politicians
that they hate for their hatred (irony),
transit workers are being
beaten in the streets to silence,
Minnesota families are being taxed
beyond belief to silence,
and social media is acting big brother to silence.
i am not sure that we all hear.
but you don’t
care, and you are there.
go fund me about it.
go start some new petition.
go join a herd of same.
i have too truly.
it is my true duty.

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April 18, 2018

eye forget

Individual on a library chair cross-legged, slanted posture, defined by my hue too. glued to this book of content unknown, under clouds too. hoping as you. not fearful of that, so they say. spread open again, flesh book, i grin. same name. no change. i don’t even remember me then. i wont begin to explain. this amnesiac has too much hunny, too little time, nothing to rhyme… vinegar for mind. we all do at times. as valued by how scarce it is; here is a free poem. no wonder im broke. on this chair seeing knowledge is the most valuable resource; cant sell those wares. bare. anyway. one day my eulogy or headstone will say: he was good at Twitter, people liked his stuff on Facebook. all prone. but not with that. it’s important. that media won elections and stole our souls. butt eye forget two.

April 4, 2018

shells of us

judging a book’s cover, imagine my face imaging.
infinite sides to a story, to a story’s story, but i know.
my flesh tells a tale, probably, as yours does too.
drawn in the blood of i forget them, never met, who cares i guess.
Passover at Easter, some pink ham in me again, belching.
nothing like anything. nothing like i just exist.
broken short nails, overgrown cuticles and shining bald spots.
adult acne keeps me younger than you might think i am.
alphabet soup of words keeps me sane.
reflections of thin air, in thin air scares, wisps.
clowns were in that movie of course, dark rooms, found footage.
still, i see apostles for anything relevant: novel sorts.
new, spring, green, now, on top of the every-thing, any-thing that is
trending hashtag section of their Twitter feeds.
until tomorrow’s Godzilla prowls painting a new-thing to hate,
until the next big no-thing, the next day.
then you do what they say, like clockwork spinning good, wait.
and you want to be different, unique.
then you tell them how much you can relate.
i guess they covered this on the cover. forget this poem.

February 24, 2018

a million pieces in my head from the 1990s, in summer and winter and with my family

one time, in wintertime,
my dad flew his ultralight plane
to about a 1,000 feet above La Crescent.
he was over blue lake at the time,
at which point
he dropped an old bowling ball,
straight down from the blue heavens.
it hit mature ice and shattered
into a million splintered jet-black diamonds.
its inception played out in reverse on mute.
in summertime, over Wildcat Landing he did the
same stunt with a Santa and a parachute.
i wonder about physics and propellers.
i wonder about moments and momentum.
i suppose he was creating novle myth here locally,
reprising antiqued beliefs,
taking awesome to new inspiring heights.
and now the dust settles on one-of-a-kind.
i suppose, or not. i don’t know.
i guess i sometimes remember these things
and wonder where those new inconoclasts reside.
too many sycophants to being glib modern Spectacle.
maybe he was just raising hell in the 90s,
being like he wanted to be, naturally,
high up in the wind, free.
no politics had a hand in it.
no opinions that were unreal.

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.

March 14, 2016

untitled 59

Skyscrapers and spires in the cool of night,
downtown & away, in the darkened light.
And we do what it is to make such sight burn,
we open eyes on what makes the soul yearn.

March 6, 2016

i took Sunday full

O’ fatty bacon ends
and dirty dishes, and
sunlight on the
blue kitchen floor.

here we talk aloud
about running the
nation as if it’s
even a possibility.

i like the way flesh
smells in the air,
when the cast iron
is heating its oils.

outside a bell chimes
in soft March winds,
the sound: my relatives,
the sound sustains.

it was eaten all up
the while, the same.
it was good, and
i took Sunday full.

and i would write
about real, jokingly.

and i would listen
to podcasts, hopefully.

February 25, 2016

Different Open Mic, Same Formula

The Wording Out
open mics
at Northrop
are always
a fun experience,
with the ill-timed
comedians,
the dead
mother’s missed
eulogies,
the fancied
subjective
assumed
thoughts of
same same same
injustices
coming
over that
easily acted
Loft literary
formula (EASY!),
maybe if
Some (U) Slam was
more inclusive,
maybe if
certain groups
didn’t exclude,
they would
find others
in their
audience
also wishing
for something
objective,
real, novel,
also wishing
for something
(anything!)
that perhaps
sounds new.

I don’t know though…

***

Stop assuming what people around you think,
write about what you see, your experience.

February 3, 2016

The Groundhog Day Blizzard

was stuck inside an office
checking local news for
hourly traffic reports and
telling the folks to go home
hopefully before five.

It was natural driving a truck,
and where does one exert so
much energy walking places,
and when else is everything
in view majestic as fuck?

I commend the bus drivers
and bike delivery workers
just out there doing their jobs,
just out there commuting, so
that others don’t have to.

More, were the processions
of landlords clearing paths,
and motorized snow removal
machines doing a dance;
how slick ways faired.

It really is like this no place
else, a bleak sheet filtered
the sight of once open walks
roads and schoolyard parks
muted and muffled by white.

Just the thought of it,
this is why we live here.

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.