Posts tagged ‘logic’

February 26, 2016

For-Profit Poets (What Bugs Me)

i wonder if the gnat in the shower mist
understands that money changes art.
the very idea of creating something for
pay transforms the something you create.

as if you aren’t going at it for self,
but now going at it for millions. this comedian
bug in our bathtub garden had the sense of
humor to remind me the importance of not

knowing, of not assuming, of not trying to be
the best in any situation, because there is only
self happiness inspired by the true muse.
and nothing more. and those words changed

for the pennies they paid, and some poets
would rather fill their bank accounts than self
actualize. and especially not talk about it.
notice it in similar words and formulas and

themes around these twin towns. i’ve seen
art on the green line, art on the transit, art
at the office desk top in non-profit form that
gave more to the world, so much more.

and i’ve begged and asked of some time to
merely experience, and some think they
have a chance at competition that proves
nothing more than some of us like just this.

December 16, 2015

doing to one an-other

individuals in groups
treating
individuals like
groups.

November 18, 2015

talk of reason

peering out of
an open
screen window,
there are wet cars
and pavement,
there are trees
and stairways,
and what does
it mean?

she says over the phone
everything happens
for a reason,
and today is
sort of part
of that.

it was an
email, an animated
interview, an
acceptance confirmed,
and then a wait for
nothing.

and then another email.

someone wants
to meet you,
my handlers said,
so what do you do?

you walk up and meet them.
you tell them about you.

she said over the phone that
things happen for a reason,
as those sharp butterflies
in the stomach,
as rigid daily routine.

now here i sit
half a view seeing
it all, half a mind
for breakfast and
nausea, half awake
and sitting in half
a morning gone.

everything happens for a reason.
the reason is: I don’t know…

i am certain it will though.
i am not sure how long.

August 13, 2015

metro flood (thru it all)

and I slip into the deluge of everyday life
to pull myself out where I so choose.

April 9, 2015

The Best Idea that you Forgot Last Night

This wet morning I
am without
last night’s genius,

do you remember, I ask her.

It was a good one-liner.

No, she says…
I was tired.

So was I,
lacking a near pen, paper sat
on the nightstand as my head rested in
a pillow, my body under
a warm white duvet, next to her loving,

and at that moment my genius got up, jealous,
waited, and then moved to the door.

It felt all right
to let my genius
walk out and away.

Though, I hope it beat the rain.

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.

December 1, 2014

One Wonders (Camp Cult)

One wonders,

Have I missed a step?
Am I still asleep?
Has the logic left?

Oh, to think again… Now I don’t “know”.

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.

July 29, 2014

Born Again ________.

Decrepit church, ruinous cemetery lay falling round back. South Ridge, Methodist, where we used to hunt for truth, speeches of the rock, power, and how it stands- magician slight of hand. Find your rock. Abracadabra.

Weed and trees—green, shade the worn markers for comfort, rough sandstone run smooth. Grass is tended monthly- assumptions, assume.

Parishioners the few, the lot, opening doors once weekly searching for healing light, they hang on rusty hinges, comfort from solitude, a peaceful mind; AA for the lonely, hope for those who don’t put faith into science, logic, rationality… I digress, proper community of another name; a normal life, sans convent.

Half full the gold offering plate, dirty money within, spins from hand to hand, spoils of the land.

Lost place on a lost hill- so many lost souls, lost confessions spilt.

Daybreak is comfort, night warrants for want; words, movement, in the vast stillness of the Minnesotan plain. Silence falls hard as pots do from top cupboards, and down. Crash of landing draws attention, the vibrations hangs in the air for years to come. No one loses grasp of that time- never, timeless, priceless, event. Dropping flowers, tears, exhausted.

This church stands as the bow, at attention, an ancient pale white. Stern amassing casualties of life, flesh wrapped- longevity lapsed, they lacked the fight. Laying in peace, producing nothing new, save for dust when the wind blows or stirs, these vacant memories of others.

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.

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