Posts tagged ‘party’

August 27, 2017

The Beer Dabbler

under gray rain sprayed heavens
troves walked in boots and leather at the Dabbler
while leaving skinny smokers on the train
with their mountain bikes and their obsessive plans
forward to old new music and colorful tents and
pretzel necklaces and cardboard cut-outs
of Bill Murray and metal fences and Rhymesayers,
where lights up high on CHS Field, 3rd base.
they were setting the stage for warm flannel
thick beards, flowing flags, slick stickers, soft coasters,
and hips swaying and shouts and cheers, beers!
and laughs–the whole crowd, at broken glass cacophony.
we took it in in gulps and sups and breaths.
saw alcohol abused rounding the bases,
as a doppelganger and DIPA waiting in the wings,
Greenway from North Dakota, Rhombus Brewery.
and artisan everything beer from whiskey casks,
told them it must be the water that makes it good.
pine wood smelled of fresh hops
and more lights, don’t water my glass sternly;
im a postmodernist who enjoy labels: i like to
reflect my makeup like rings in a tree
keep going onto one another, like language,
all the way to the bathrooms and fireworks,
attendees hiding the buns at the center of
the table in VIP–VIP doesnt get dessert.
some sort of Seinfeld joke played out here.
the beer was dessert, free t-shirt, free glass, etc.
people laughing, wedding rings, pictures
text messages, cars coming head-on
from Union Depot. more selfies. a poet ponders
walks and writes, drinks listens to a man
driving Uber perhaps tell of everyone else
using excuses, good words, especially for what
we look like–he said, in their image: gods. i watched the traffic.
i get it, like i didnt try to get here very hard…
wet rain shell, spaghetti, wife and son.
Kelly’s is like a bar in my hometown.
more of a sore throat, thank god i dont smoke.
such and such, have to go back for baseball.
such and such, good free beer, tastes like i forgot…

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March 5, 2016

just around the corner

“Oh, you’re that poet!”
-Cashier, Surdyk’s

A hang
over should
be called
a caught
under,
and the
Terminal
bar was
a life saver;

The ceiling
fell in
and I caught
fire, but
we put it
out with
plastic cups,
dirty tips &
and a few
forgetful
moments.

*
Two parts around
the corner.

One part a few
blocks away.

Walking home with
half a sandwich.

Long Friday night
St. Anthony main.

January 23, 2016

awake: the play

A poet writes in SE Minneapolis about the trials and tribulations of a Friday night gone mildly awry. He is surrounded by the cat’s meow, a blowing electrical heater, and the buzz of a refrigerator standing in a near vacant kitchen. The sky is overcast mute through slitted shades. He broods in his mildly sarcastic Minnesotan fashion, feeling the pains of last night’s waste while coming to terms with how his workouts aren’t working out. And nothing happens…

scene 1:
to wake in uptown
fully clothed and hot,
recounting bad
pajamas and enough
beer to consume
an entire Heggies pizza.

(and people starve abroad,
and others win
the lottery at home, and he
still tries.)

here,
i’d rather see myself
in Beat coffeehouse
having conversation

about
cutting ties with
negatives, and always
smiling through the shit,

and elaborate schemes…

i’d rather be
confused and
frightened,
than comfortable
in the same
old place.

*
certain days you wake
up away, and certain days
you don’t wake up at all.

*

monologue:
but i won’t wait,
why, why sit back
at the theatre
and watch the
other performers
take what they will?

(all life is
performance art;

even the
bathroom is
theatre.)

monologue 2:
no, it was a nice way
to wake up, in the dark
on the phone with love

at five am,
to need water,
to set the alarm,
to find my glasses to
see it all perfectly
clear in grey light.

(the cold was there
waiting for him just
as it was the night
before, and he went to it.)

scene 2:
i just found myself
at the darkest place before
i came back home
huffing on a cold bike,

and someone at the open
mic knew my name,

still all the words for
the poem were lost
in alcohol and water,
in laughs and sighs.

they snapped at the wrong
parts and guffawed
at pigment jokes;

i guess pink is a funny color.

scene 3:
so, sitting over
simple english and
talking academia
with coffee on my breath

i found the song
i had searched months
for and wrote it down
with my blog link
shamelessly on the back of
someone else’s ephemera,

then i stuck it to a blackboard
and biked with thin layers
from south to north,

to home to shower,
to think i think.

this is where you can find me.
awake.

FIN

January 3, 2016

(being lazy) all through the city

being lazy is my favorite thing to do.
i bike to West Photo to get 35mm film.
i drop money at the bank to pay rent.
i go on Nicollet to get fitted for a suit.
being lazy is great, as it pervades me.
i sit at The Local in downtown and talk.
i notice the bartender and server going.
i tell a joke & move thru tore up streets.
being lazy is my favorite thing to do.
i think i am doing this task so well.
i walk to magazine boxes placing art.
i write poems and prose and no one cares.
i think of how Monday there is change.
i think of how tonight is really tomorrow.
i meet local celebrities and have a chat.
i forget names and don’t mention it.
i get a discount for being a smartass.
i try not to find excuses for being me.
i try not to hear excuses for being you.
being lazy is my favorite thing to do.
i drink water instead of vodka bloodies.
i walk out on the ice and drink a beer.
i take photos of a sunset over trees.
i love the blue sky which lights me pale.
being lazy is my favorite thing to do.
being this lazy takes up so much time.

October 21, 2015

The Night I Lost My Coat

You lost your leather coat

At a bachelor party last weekend.

It wasn’t at the strip club,

Nudes danced wet on poles.

It wasn’t at the forgotten bar,

La Crosse lines them in rows.

It wasn’t inside of the party bus,

The one with open windows,

The one with a cracking radio…

It was lost, elsewhere between—

For reasons of altruistic motives,

To keep your brother warm.

It was lost in ways unknown.

September 19, 2015

applefest casualty

Those trees of the backyard
Through a naked window
kicked at my eyes while a truck drove
busy and loud in my skull.

The white beer tent last night,
with its sugary high notes
and crisply set carbonation
caused splintered synapse today.

And those leaves were changing outside,
and Dirty Jobs was on the set
and life was passing by momentarily
as butter rested malleable on a knife’s edge,

and in the dish, on toast, on pancakes;
between a paper, and conversation
about how this generation doesn’t get it
from another which heard the same …

Now, yesterday’s ideology was stale as the open chips,
and contrived but real and there.

My kindergarten teacher was my bartender,
her pupils were standing years apart
and side-by-side amongst the crowd
as a cover band played Queen
and last week’s hit single.

A flea market set up where we played as kids,
and mom had to go to the fest grounds
to help the church in bright light fashion.

Text messages came through
as I pulled the rubber band
off of bold print fragile paper.

The headline spoke of what was outside:
the backyard, again, window earlier today
—I almost threw up—
remember new years day?
and the champagne and its pain?

On the set was tanning leather—
the wet kind, grey and grotesque;

and in that flowery prose
was a half-baked sentence
which balked at this fleeting instance
of happening nature.

He said just take these pills
and don’t mind the stale smoke smell
of that crumpled shirt at your feet,

an hour later my head
became straight,
I dressed for the game,
and for the weather, and for the
cold fall to come.

***
It was a morning of remembrance
and a splitting headache,
thoughts of sweet beer and bubbles.

We were talking sorts in the dark,
in the night rain,
near tents and lights
and sound.

Many questions now…
There were no awards for 3rd place
in the poker tournament…

We have the hardest time understanding
that we don’t understand.

It exists because you hear it,
or you hear it because it exists.

***
I remember feeding the horse,
and then eating food with my hands…

As a loading television allowed for novel thought.

July 16, 2015

An Evening in a North Forest

Loam, marrow, stone, and humus—
where open groves of pine bent in sway,
stained-wood new growth,
a green tent setup
and stretched between.

We went tearing, hard traipsing,
gutting fish at a low fire glow
near an old truck.

A sharp knife’s prick in
a valley’s deep expanse—
words far off and then gone;

neighbors chattered, birds chirped,
and the wind whistled
where we breathed in,
adjusted focus, stretched, and pulled.

It was merely coming through,
it was a mere passing chance.

It was an evening in a north forest.

June 11, 2015

you look like you got some sun

One of my favorite phrases to hear on Monday is,
“Oh, you got a bit of sun over the weekend…”
The idea of going outside and sitting in the sun
without buildings, without work, without people,
without being stuck in-doors, without a thing to do,
without being paraded around like a fool at a party,
without the constraints of what society deems correct:
you should wear sunscreen, you should cover up!
you should avoid a sunburn—it will cause cancer!
I have to assume that people die of accidents daily.
You should avoid cigarettes, and expensive scotch,
and domestic beers, and fishing, and jerking off,
and relaxing for no reason, and not doing anything,
and cooking raw red meat, and frying fillets of fish,
and reading a book, or two, and driving an old truck,
and thinking about sexual fantasies, or debauchery.
Yeah, you should probably avoid all of those fun things,
and while you’re at it, make sure to hide from the sun.
Nah. I want to say, “You didn’t get any sun at all?
That’s great, I am sorry to hear you are a shut-in.”
But rather to save some time, I just say, “Yeah.”

May 6, 2015

I used to live here, Whittier South

And those injured and suffering went along
Carrying bandaged faith and sore teeth,
smelling of sour mashed sweat,
rubbing tender eyes,

as empty cans and bottles littered
the Whittier South yard where they sauntered.

Harmless props save for the thought.
It was a weekend to remember forgotten.

Sunlight carried split-skull interactions,
churned ladles in their tender stomachs.

If only these plastic chairs could talk they would be perfect witnesses,
chucked into red-ash fire
at the utterance of a word.

Feet kicked aluminum to metal sound,
and “see over there—there’s the compost.”

Now, can I have a beer?
Can I have a piss?