Posts tagged ‘Merica’

July 13, 2015

Confederate Flags, Cotton, & The Vikings; Modern Symbolism

I sort of understand
The confederate flag supporters—

I don’t agree with them,
But idiots are idiots;

I root for a losing team as well.

It’s insane.

The Minnesota Vikings are
Historically a losing team
That everyone loves,
Their organization represents
Our humble and beautiful state
In near billion dollar facilities
And tax incentives.

Now I wonder,
These two groups are similar,
The Southern States and the Vikings (The NFL Team),
In that they did/do not often win—or never did,

Same, yeah…
Different, yeah…

Use your imagination…

They are similar
Except for the fact that
the Vikings (seafarers) never kept slaves (presumably),
They just raped, plundered, and pillaged
Whole cultures and peoples (See: Ireland),
Taking power and rule,

By way of attacks.

I don’t think everyone knows this,
Or thinks about this
When they fly their purple and yellow flag,
Or when they don
Their cherished team’s memorabilia,

But we certainly care about things.

It’s always an interesting game of money and distraction,
And who can yell the loudest on what interests them the most.

Now, I don’t know who to root for anymore,
There isn’t really anything that doesn’t represent something else…

To everyone else.

***
And what about cotton, the cash crop of slavery?
You and I wear it on ourselves daily.
The symbol doesn’t need to be obnoxious,
Star-spangled, red, white, or even blue to be offensive.

There is hate in just about everything,
And love, if you look hard enough.

Advertisements
May 2, 2015

Between Wisconsin and Minnesota, an evening interstate

Here I sit, fast going on an evening interstate drive,
as all the world is turned an end-day blur.

The convertible top was dropped
as the dripping moon strutted in high heavens
to flash each blemish loved,
outline each scar deep, detailed,
a desirable waning pale—the color of a tooth ache.

Cheese curd grease and fish guts lingered in the broad smiles
of each captured moment, of each phone in hand.

Hair in the air, messed,
as familiar ghosts styled each malleable strand,
I wonder if they could smell the product on their hands.

Blue Lake came rippled shining,
bending slight the reflection of dusk’s
passing azule.

Comforting speeds blew ears quiet,
as the Chrysler’s engine hummed
at a stoplight break, loved ones in tow.

The car went as we waved to neighbors
and backyard exhibitionists.

There was a police car and prom.
There were city fires burning.
There was a quiet green village turning dark.

I am JFK,
I am in horn-rimmed luxury,
vantage,
I am sitting,
surrounded by everything that I am.

I am first world problems burdened
—too full to starve, too apathetic to cry.

An extended stomach,
a dented head,
beer burps,
and you were in Mexico playing,
as the world passed on.

February 1, 2015

Super Bowl Whatever

American Consumerist Party:
Greased commercials and ads-
Flash fast on the television screen;
As pupils contract and expand.

October 31, 2014

Small Parts of Us

Balled tissue found in my pocket,
Crumpled, asymmetrical too,
Holding browned stained spatter,
Amongst dried tears of proof.

Discovered in seldom worn jacket,
Once you were tucked deep inside;
Producing contents as pure magic,
Tiny parts in my mind come alive.

Last I wore you to a wedding,
Then we heard passing bad news.
I was standing dressed in all black,
Together we were singing the blues.

I tucked you away just safely,
For another day to come;
I found you on this morning (for instance),
Now, I’ve been struck dumb.

Little things we keep, held on to so tight,
Parts of us small, which make up our lives.

September 4, 2013

College Girls/Nikki Fine Lookalike

Nikki Fine Lookalike/College Girls

By Terry Scott Niebeling

 

 

Possibilities without conclusions within reason, always.

 

Next to me in next to nothing, “Sorry about my mispronunciation, I am used to speaking French.”  Redhead from Ohio, Oh, Hi, oh…

Um…  Guten Tag!

 

Look, take account, not to stare.

All there, and something is missing.

Too early, am I dreaming?  Focus on the material, not what’s under it.

 

What kind of Yoga pants and mid-drift are in store for tomorrow?

 

I saw them skipping through the hallways as if no one was watching, their audience had no vacancy. 

No time for sauntering or talking. 

Walking past with an agenda, I was as the light beam that held me as people walked through it.

 

And they tell you to pay attention, as if you are obese at an all you can eat buffet.

Never today, I am spoken for in many ways.

 

Who did you want her to be, or how?

Was it true to your eyes?

Did your thoughts somehow allow?

 

One could take in tiny blond hairs just at the apex of her legs; thighs at rest, some under thread, some exposed to be what seemed like overhead-this vantage, a view from a seat, of her skirt.

 

Everyone in the class was too poetic; our professor was looking for something more literal.

 

(I thought, don’t take this argument to the streets.  I know a million people who are POETS, WRITERS, and AUTHORS.  THEY HAVE PUBLISHED BOOKS, you know?  They’ll tell you out loud to your face at introduction even before their passionate hand clasps yours for an initial handshake.

Trust me.  Go to any party in Uptown, Downtown, NE, fuck it, anywhere in Minneapolis, as proof.  You will see.)

 

Feet held below stubbled knees, in slip-ons sans socks, where thoughts get long, hard, and lost.

 

Bejeweled with bright rings and things-affixed shiny rocks, on silver-metal bands, held tight to each little finger, on her delicate little hands.  To her mouth, to the air, to her desk, they lingered, and then back again.

 

Is she Nikki Fine?  I don’t know.

That’s fine.

My mind playing tricks again, sitting in class.

I don’t mind.

 

We were talking Shakespeare as the time passed, Sonnet 18.