Posts tagged ‘observation’

June 21, 2017

my schedule.

Sometimes they tell me to not take the train
because of scheduled preventative maintenance.  
So there is a bus, the number 3.  That is OK.  I can deal.  
I’ll have to walk a bit on Lexington.  Anyway, sometimes I read
while on the usual train in the morning,
while sitting next to naked monks speaking in tongues
while fresh girls get out of their seats
and move to the door for fear he might find them evil
or something like snakes to crush.
White spittle crazy in the corner of his lips.  
Then I go to the back of the train too–to get away
and watch reflections on plastic or the sky above
or building’s tops and tree lines.  
Sometimes.  Sometimes we make loud abrupt stops.  
Sometimes I get nauseated and ride the train backwards
on accident or lack of space.  
My mom tells me she might get seasick.  
The green line is great if you like gentrification
that causes rent that makes rental refrigerators empty
and arguments to flare up in summer heat with no AC
like mosquitoes on naked arms near still lakes.  
I don’t care though.  But then I do.
I love the way I get to where I am going.  
Now on the number 3 it will take a bit longer…
It takes me 20 minutes and a few pages to turn.
From there I will have to walk longer in the heat.  
I get some knowledge from my book.
I carry it under my arm and bang my wallet with it–check.
It’s all in my hand, information.
It’s mostly tax free and friendly
and I don’t have to make friends.  
But sometimes it gets canceled
and I realize that it means more to me than most things
because it is so easy (and when it’s not there…)
and it is so convenient
and everyone talks about it
and tells you how great it is
and wishes they could live in a big city
because all these things are close
and nice and expensive and very cool.
But tomorrow I can’t take the train to my regular station.
Probably get a ride and talk about my schedule.

May 27, 2017

morning sun, knowing it’s god in ways that we don’t

morning sun apart,
i apart the sun cutting the shade
cutting the street cutting the car cutting my eyes.
birds standing dandelions pulling worms
like i do zippers in the northern cold.
the used car lot neighbors crowded the street again
like modern protests,
disrupting a conscious flow
though lacking the initiative as most–
there is no justice to be given back here on the boulevard
and not peace. take history for example…
i see no change in the human condition.
tho that’s me.
it was there before they came as most
they just didn’t see it,
not until it was stirred cause bright schisms
for their eyes to take. redoubled.
i only have a problem when it’s before me
usually i remain silent and wait for it.
still wanting what’s replevin them.
no getting it, they are no robin at the soil.
i am no robin at the soil elsewise.
no glare to morning eyes.
no standing stem to be lopped at rusted blade,
and the mower will start.
a hundred years old, my dad fixed it before he died,
that is how fucking trusty it is.
arcature of the gods–nay, with purpose.
sun reclaiming its take, no problem.
it doesn’t believe in science to be a spinning orb
in blackness of space
to heat up something it does not know, earth,
and does not care to
and we can call it what we want for naught
because it’s still there and we are proud.
that glare and those cars.
never moving. why should i? never knowing
something impossible, keep asking for it.

May 21, 2017

auspicious believers (so i cant. so i wont.)

we can never know or understand relateable language no matter the familiarity in whatever function we choose to fancy.  interpretations involve smells and times and deaths and climes and thoughts that no longer exist; bygone dusts could tell better stories, persuade better truths.

i reach for douglass and derrida, and they ask me not to in their words, but i don’t know or understand the meaning.  they say our nostrils could not handle the 1800s and we use words from that season in ways we couldnt image.

tell me its wrong young scholar, fad intellectualists, your precise wisdom is your precise debt.  trapped in a box.  chained.  shackled.  nailed in.  it won’t be the last time.  mind askewed biased abused.  never knowing language; i teach it too.  want to understand study the single meaning for a life and pull it out timid.

i beg you to caution your wits safety.  close and zip your loose lips.  stick a sock in it, save those ships.  there is no exact exactly.  here is a free lesson.  don’t get me started on labels.  sad fools pretend to command it just as you see and read.  ask them about affect or effect, their there theyre, its and its.  sound familiar?

its not, never will be, never has been, never was.  concomitant, concocted, intermingled, fluid, assumptions that others have brains.  and they work well.  when they spin wheels in voids tending to spires metals and idols just past their eyes, telling you what you are with these same words so sure they arent wrong.  try not to laugh.  so right, believe.

so i cant.  so i wont.  every single word.

May 14, 2017

get away from it all (mn state parks)

Minnesota state parks do it for me,
like Prozac for some. And less
expensive, and less expensive counseling.
You know you always need to come back
to get better, to pay the doctor,
to make sure the pills are working…
For this i just need a sticker, it’s $25 dollars
and there are no commercials or brochures.
This is better: the ca-chunck of a cold can,
the wetted splash of a distant paddle,
waves calmly lapping my naked feet
in May waters of the St Croix.
here, i think Minnetonka moccasins
should be call Dominican Republic moccasins;
because that’s where they are made, really.
(please see the label for their local status.)
i found my sister’s pot-of-gold lure mimic’d,
twisted it on, threw it out: caught nothing
but a buzz and rocks and sun.
Line gone, line spun, line done.
Watched a lady smell pine sap
her dog lashed to a leash nigh,
she covertly hid her keys on her tire,
as we watched,
and she played Bob Dylan on a ukulele
before the slowly coming dusk.
i watched a child just hang in an ergo baby all day.
i saw the light cut through.
Drank liquids from an orange Nalgene.
Saw the reflection off brown current
cause camera obscura on some island bark,
made my pole dance and my eyes hurt too.
Still i got no fish… not even a bite.
Names cut to rock with metal or twig
in hearts to prove they love, maybe still.
More sap on the pine–i want a whiff too.
i’ll tell you something true.
Once, i wrote a good poem here for a class
that didn’t care. It was about killing bugs. Should have
read the other one comparing me to Picasso–it didn’t matter.
MN state park days are the best to get away.
my shoulders turned a shade of red
and they do label me a shade of white.
Been black and blue, purple, green and yellow too.
my mind thought about what the sign meant
as vessels drifted by, people yelling.
looking for their open sites, theirs.
neosavages, these: European, free, socially aware,
middle-class, their Prius’s and Subarus parked,
tents popped up, foraging in rented canoes,
life vests and manufactured paddles. Pointing like pioneers.
We are still too close to the city i suppose
And the DNR’s new 100 percent reserve policy
on all the good campsites
has them coming in intellectual droves
and this time they bring science not god,
(well at least some.)
Cutting out the day-tripper maybe-stayers in their prime!
Not sure what is worse…
How does a regular guy get away from it all anyway?

May 13, 2017

he died doing what he loved

the day before my dad died
my grandma told me to call him,
she handed me the phone and i dialed.
he answered and asked me to visit him in Lanesboro.
per usual, of course i couldnt,
i was busy marrying my cousin
and her new husband,
i was to fish brook trout and hunt morel
at an expansive farm in Highland, MN.
he told me about how midget strippers
were from that area
and he told me he could fly me in a plane
back to the Cities on Sunday. and he could truly.
but i get sick on planes, ex: my whole life.
i would tell him that so he didnt feel bad.
i laughed, so did grandma–a-mid-dementia.
now the cat barfs on the windowsill in St Paul
and i cant move to clean it.
you read, he told me this story.
that was the last i knew of his soul.
now i want an old motorcycle and three kids,
i want a lot of land in the countryside
and to own my own business, sort of like him.
i want to tell rude stories and make people laugh.
all around me is this fabric to weave,
even that old dreaded piece of a phone call
i hide because it worries and bothers
and turns me 4 years younger, less jaded and
more naive. i see him leaving every day is a possibility.
i just wonder when he will come back.
and some believe in ghosts and gods and scripture,
i havent seen much in the way of poltergeists or apparitions;
the afterlife exists now in tongues and no more.
i only feel the ones i never knew
and could care less to just pass
and call my imagination gone astir
or drunken views taken in the timid darkness.
i heard he died doing what he loved a lot,
and when that happens they say it is good.

April 10, 2017

Nothing to do

A dented car, the front as a pug, not planned as that, like life. And we criticize the fate for being, criticize the sun for heating, walk alone in desolate winter and ask for a warm hand to help guide. Nothing to do. Nothing to do. Cant change it.

March 28, 2017

how to be a thoughtful globalist in the wake of fake intellectuals

this would make me empassioned, or
impassioned.  i am passionate about this something…
that’s how i get
when neo-globalists
who’ve never left the states
try to fix
other people’s problems
with
their English language exclusively.
the irony of westernization; fixed only by itself. YOU SEE?
and that is what they call backwards and selfish.
tho, there will be no stories of this on the news.
because just get out there and disrupt because.
and they should
call those who
think locally “nationalists” too.
a bunch of loud fools.
you know, somethings don’t translate.
you know, people might have different opinions.
this is how language works.
so when they/you designate
their/your ideas, ideations, and ideologies
as such, i just smh in realtime.
so silly, so stupid, so same.
that is why i am a where-ever-i-am-at-ist,
because i am right there,
i can attempt to understand
what i see and experience around me,
for me, for truth, for better.
maybe even for you…
but honestly, not for you (i don’t care)
or the tv (forget tv), i won’t facebook livestream it
or create a clever sign that
gets thrown away next day in some ironic carbon footprint
(that you too should actually hate)
after the post and the filter and the likes–fretter fakes.
and that is what i am passionate about,
or empassioned about, or impassioned about,
all that is around me
because i can touch it tangible,
as they said, i can feel the real,
i can set the clock next to the bed.
and there is something about language and labels.

March 19, 2017

dad knew

i cut the shades to sunrise pale
because there was nothing there and my father.
there were words in book.
there were time spent in the recesses of my brain,
turned to gas and confusion,
lost attentions and forgotten bank statements.
where i used to fly planes even though
i would fill the bag and he would laugh.
then a plane crash. i could feel the fields
and the corn and the trees
and the dirt in the valley as we looked for that wheel
which exploded off on impact.
it was back at the hangar.
…and he used to make bombs like Uncle Sam
and blow deer heads off of walls,
they made sounds like shotguns miles away,
black trash bags and simple chemistry.
smells like someone is burning pine or trash.
cut the shades to nitrogen.
just a thought. the reflection of the house next door
and its waxen motion sensor light,
should have been changed months ago to be effective.
and nothing. cut the shades, they can see in
and i can see out
and i am sure there is nothing there.
that’s what happens with your attitude
and aspiration as you come closer to it.
to that one thing that no one talks about
and pretends isn’t there. dad knew.

March 12, 2017

uptown is still intact.

morning sun came painting houses
down the block with its invisible brush,
a car sitting outside defrosted
its alabaster exterior,

and John Denver crooned to me thru Google Home
years before his plane crash demise,
talking of Colorado, reminding me of Coors Light–the beer.
Effulgent as the shines spire,

one that Ahab loathes, I realize Uptown
is still intact. Still too cool. Saw buildings rise
like noonday heat, anon, now, fast, quick, ungodly.
realized old ones, their stone facades

still gazed at the new, different,
removed crowd below. Same. something strange,
something with pretense; something–why, you, there!
and it was rocky mountain high and country road

take me home, something American,
something America. going here again,
i too am different. Same. eyes seen things.
notice the art of apology is dead, humor too,

notice tell of another hang-over had by all for naught.
something stirs and people
describe it in a way not the same, unique to them only.
not the same. not the same. as this area.

uptown is still intact.
uptown as a bit more jaded, me.

February 24, 2017

how about that snow minnesota, pretty bad huh? (a bunch of dummies)

i guess, when your facebook predicts it
in so many memes
and the weather team can’t be wrong,
how does one cope by just stepping outside
into nothing that was said,
stepping outside
into the alternative universe
you create
by not just going along with a crowd
that may or may not be right
uniquely defined by such honed definitions
and individuals turned to
what amount to metaphorical piles of snow,
losing ground in May
and not exactly sure of what to do
or say in text about anything anymore.