Posts tagged ‘Painting’

September 14, 2018

inheritance, of no one locks their doors in the Apple Capital of Minnesota and i learned all the important things in life in kindergarten

apple crisps so good,
and you can easily make
them with what you have at your
house. that is what my
mother said walking the hall.
that night we sat and
ate ice cream and viewed a 1995
Louis M. Martini Merlot and
a Montague Dawson. i found an
heirloomed Seiko on my arm.
still love the Casio tho…
found us watching Seinfeld again.
made calls yesterday for freedom. found
a teacher i had learned everything in life
from has cancer in a delayed line at
a grocery story, by happenstance, caused by me:
Kwik Trip ran out of Applefest buttons,
well the liquor store ran out first…
no one pointed me in the right
direction, but her. that was ’94
that was a long time ago.
new favorite phrase: i am responsible.
i thought she would cry.
we hugged and wished each other best.
Hokah and 20 years ago is not far away.
i walked through a parking lot
in mourning sun, to a phone call of
being late and wondered how the
beer was in the car seat.
remembered finding coins with Xiong around here.
nothing gets stole in this town.
they leave the doors unlocked.
still no one lives forever.
except that river over there.

***
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March 24, 2017

my painting (even with tired eyes)

i woke up this morning
thought about
painting a painting,
put the colors in it,
gave it detail,
and so it was.
minor moves in maelstrom.
then i called it my own
and asked for a museum,
a place for it to
be put up in,
a place for it to call home.
eye of the storm, so settle in.
and then i woke up again.
and then i found my painting.
and then i found my museum.
to the leeward we form.
looking at the mirror
even with tired eyes.
thank you for this day.

May 29, 2015

A Ride to Work with Late Masters

Sweet smell of morning
and leavings of last night’s rain
were scattered about,
sluiced on glass and ground,
left abandoned for drying.

A naked wrist called to remember Warhol.

The wild storm came and went,
as 4am was time, as day break was birthed,
as the tired feeling that reels one to a cold shower expires,
as eyes to a mirror interrogation, to face this—
was deep and strong.

Hands never moved on the melting clocks, where ants carried away.

Haring said, “I am becoming much more aware of movement.
The importance of movement is intensified
when a painting becomes a performance.
The performance (the act of painting)
becomes as important as the resulting painting.”

In order to become whole energy burst through,
coming down pieces, it restored movement.

Where stiff blades of grass begged of overcast—end this holocaust,
“Just drop, fall already!”

And it happened, moving in a storm-window screen
as a runaway train through a dark tunnel,
as a maladroit thief in the night—confused at access, loud.

And that was the waking siren emboldened,
no firetruck’s scream, no squad car whoop, no alarm bells ringing.

Dali enjoyed watching Gala with other lovers, they came.

This sound predated them all,
and it was just pressure and water and air and now.

I caught the leftovers in a rearview mirror flared reflection
at a stop light turned red; the droplets cascaded down
at the truck’s growly acceleration.

Soppy beads rocked in zigzags about the exterior of a blackened rusted frame.

Sun caught on the cloy smell of dying lilacs—sweet,
chain coffee in the console—weak,
and exhaust from a boxy bus that was slipping by noisily—disgust,

motivation to kill, the latter cacophony in soft mushroomed cartilage.

The formers caught porous nose at the same time.

We were all traveling in the storm’s wake to get somewhere,
and some of us were living unnoticed.

February 17, 2015

a late day

I wake to shower,
She wakes to paint,
The cat wakes to eat,
We all might be late.

June 10, 2013

Mark My Words Again 2, @PumpHouseArts

One Night In Northeast Minneapolis,

By Terry Scott Niebeling

 

On the western horizon hung white-violet light.

Just before dusk, just before night.

 

Outside arctic breeze whipped clawed tops of leafless trees.

 

On the ground snow-pack stood a foot deep; booted pedestrians crossed icy streets.

I rested back on bent knees, transfixed: at work, at peace, at ease.

 

On my mind ideas of being set free: thoughts of flying east.

Only a piece of glass stood between.