Posts tagged ‘Minneapolis Artist’

March 31, 2018

When I Commute from Hamline/Midway in St Paul to the East Bank of Minneapolis at 7:20 in the Morning and back at 5:15 in the Evening, it’s a very personal experience that I will share with you because you are part of it too and everything and you should know

outside, on the street, other drivers can’t drive.
i mean they drive, but badly.
going on University Avenue to CVM by Surly
i realize this frequently, daily, to my surprise…
i want to see all my surroundings at once,
close captioned, in HD, real-time,
over 280, let me explain.
people choose not to use their turn signals,
they choose to not stay in their own lane,
they find illegal parking on the side by Dunn Bros…
when we pay taxes we pay for both sides of the road, i get it.
at West Gate Station, get ready to abruptly stop, always.
Get ready to get looked at hard, in a not nice fashion.
there is no open road freedom.
further, pedestrians look at crosswalks like patrons look at art at the MIA.
here, nothing special to see, white lines, no meaning apparently; awe-inspiring.
i am stuck in Frogger, these are the frogs, i am the cars.
try me, run for the train.
when i sit shotgun i am a shackled dictator repeating:
slow down, babe!
watch out, babe!
OMG, don’t tailgate, please, i know this person loves
causing accidents…its probably
an insurance scam waiting to happen…
see those dent’s, i can tell they are texting and driving 3 cars away.
what a nice person, what a great driver, i substitute curse words.
i like to think about things like that, and potholes.
they make the moon landing less believable, these craters on earth.
both cities, just please fix the fucking roads.
this is in my head i never say it.
only more cordially or through art…
i don’t care about politics because they just talk.
just make it so i can get to somewhere without destroying my vehicle,
at least when i am in the beautiful city of, i am between.
if i wanted to off-road most days i would go to the farm.
still i am offered excuses, told how hard it is, all at once, patience.
as an adult who pays taxes, officially, and who drives a leased Subaru
i can appreciate the idea of better infrastructure
for logical reasons like having nice things, if you can’t agree
that’s not for me…
but again, outside, other drivers can’t drive.
and, now, the construction site that took away our child’s daycare
to make cheaply built expensive high-rise condos
also takes away the single lane
after they took away the double lane a few weeks back.
and i got no condolences, i make nothing off it only lost time.
it’s hard to apologize for wanting better roads
and better drivers on those roads, and people to get off
their phones, and for some dangerous bikers to be careful, to choose a side.
i guess for a safer and better life for all, a better community…
that’s initiative today, just complain about it.
i can’t recall the last time
i didn’t pay for insurance, tabs, plates, gas,
parking, repairs, oil changes, general maintenance, deductibles for insurance
after hitting a twilight rodent; that’s just life tho, my choice, i know.
but other drives, O, it’s so hard to understand them!
and they breeze by and scowl like i have a problem!
(probably it’s me too, we are all to blame.)
and they act like they have never wronged or sinned or failed,
or mistakes don’t happen to them, ever. i think we know better.
that’s America though; we never do wrong. they do, right?
we are all Gentlemen Animals, no different. human animals.
covering so that the Thought Police don’t get to us at some point.
but the Thought Police are Facebook and Twitter and WordPress and GMail…
but other drivers out there, please drive safe you add value.
i don’t know, i love you because unless i am eating
i talk, so i would make a bad spy… and you are great.
i don’t know, i like the view to curtail this complaint or Ode,
it’s beautiful, i race trains and buses and
the sun’s glare from St Paul in the east. i see all people,
and i love them, even as drivers, commuters, they are part of my day and me.
it’s a perfect way to get to where you need to go.
it’s a perfect way to be a part of it.

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December 9, 2013

From Books to Blogs; A Story of Evolution

 

From books to blogs like cats and dogs;

We’re surrounded by a million writers with a million words,

Wanting to get read and be heard- absurd.

 

Zombies scare me less.

 

How to Be a Famous Writer:

Start today, don’t delay, and get on your way.

Print press doesn’t pay like they say.

It only takes a few seconds to change your ways.

 

Like Flies on Shit.

 

What’s an artist’s wage?

Cost per page?

Adverts?

 

MPR broadcasts their crying.

You’d think people were dying.

 

Do they even fucking read?

 

I could hardly hold back my laughter.

 

Then we look at progress, and the prospects.

Not finding a silver-lining.

 

No room for wining and dining.

 

You find that surprising?

 

No one’s getting fatter.

 

This hobby wasn’t to fill any part of any wallet.

Act like Author Gods but they haven’t yet penned their ‘Hobbit’.

Just minds and thoughts figuring how those unique (everyone) call it.

They were so close, but they lost it.

 

I want to vomit.

 

I don’t see.

They follow what they want to be.

Flee to the next scheme…

 

But sadly others have been there before; up, down, and in between; twice, three times, maybe four.

Do we need anymore?

 

Can we chart forward progress by going backward?

 

Recline, sit in a chair.

Analyze, document, look, read, compare,

Tense up and think about how life is unfair.

 

Are you prepared?

 

Open Market, Open Mic, there’s an Open Season on the Weekend Artist tonight.

-Awake and aware of the unawares.

-Happily, a positive outlier without a care.

Counter parts rest comfortably under stairs.

 

Understand the standard deviation and mean,

But not meaning to be mean-

 

All part of the artistry in the Minneapolis Scene,

Wipe ass with freshly torn pages.

 

Print press has changed throughout the ages,

And they present new material as if it’s not dated…

 

Faded yellow on a dusty shelf. 

He called it sleeping knowledge.

I think his popularity needs help. 

 

And all of those resources have been wasted.

They don’t factor external cost,

They can’t calculate their displacement*.

 

At least hope and ambition aren’t lost.

 

 

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Displacement_(psychology)

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November 22, 2013

In So Many Words…

The shorter the writing project the harder it becomes.  I have this problem where I write a million or so words and still say nothing at all.  I can’t speak of a single entity within a plethora of black and white lines and dots.  Copious language utilized to convey squat.

The sentences are great, the structure is fine, but the content is shit.

I guess it’s the best written material ever.  I truly enjoy the act of writing, so it has to be, right?

Typing, fingers on the keys, creating something visually appealing on the desktop screen in front of me.  Almost no errors, and it flows, but it says nothing about anything; who I am, or where I live, nothing of relevance or significance-really.  I guess it says I have issues.

This might not be a problem but a successful catalyst for confusion and boredom. An escapist’s venting of real world fixations, deadlines, and the harsh realities one is not quite ready to confront, let alone accept, maybe…

And then I think…

Why change that which is so innately us?  I guess why change the government?  Why change the status quo?  Why change the us we know?

The title of this piece is “Art”.

Why change that too?

October 15, 2013

Confusion at Best (Around Town)

Confusion at Best,

By Terry Scott Niebeling

 

I send out the same message to everyone I know,

To no effect,

To be similar to you,

So you won’t forget.

I do this just as long as we can grow.

 

It takes place probably somewhere between Coffman Union and Marcy Holmes.

 

This act is redundant proof,

Enough thought to write tomes.

 

And the stuff we are all made of,

Like a warm place where we actually write poems.

 

This is like biking from Northeast to the Turf Club.

-Counting the stars above.

 

Hell Bent as Heaven Sent, stare on bold reader.

These pages are wet with regret and eager.

How we are:  pressing the buttons, blackening the pages, and living life so meager.

 

This is in the Downtown High-rises and next to the St. Anthony Main Theatre features.

 

I bet you don’t even know of the Multi-Verse yet.

But there are so many artists, poets, and musicians, how could you forget?

August 30, 2013

My Contemporaries

My Contemporaries

By Terry Scott Niebeling

 

Stolen stories about how I tell people I’m a writer.

I don’t, I’m not.

I just type a lot.

 

This took place at the VFW, this took place on social media, and this whole idea took place in my mind.

He said she said.

Of course I’m fine.

 

To my contemporaries,

You hardly write, you always talk, and what is there to do about it?

Nothing.

Your work exists in the rain like chalk.

 

Frame of mind, you are blind.

Idly wasting time, waste of time.

 

The only thing we have in common is proximity on a map.

You have released thoughts from their trap.

Your handshakes, salutations, and self-descriptions fall flat.

 

Is there more to you?

More to do?

We can only assume.

 

As long as you are around I know there is someone better fit for the job.

Making us all look good.

 

Cheers,

TS_

 

After Thought:

 

Facebook Famous,

Got it covered like a condom.

 

Not paying to publish.

Not wasting paper.

Not advertising falsities.

Not entertaining bullshit.

 

The only way to exist.

 

I just wrote all of this.

I haven’t spoken a single word.

Ain’t that a bitch?

 

Don’t believe everything you say, speak, read, or see.

Most people lie.

I formulate drafts when I sit.

 

***

How’d you get famous?

You know it’s not word of mouth when you’re speaking about yourself, right?