Posts tagged ‘reality’

January 1, 2017

7102, wow,

the year 2017, wow, is going to be 365 new ones,
with bubbles, pink shrimp and bloody Rib-eye.
Less of a killer hangover for new dads,
more time to think on things that happen.
Watching church shows: Joel Osteen,
for his positive message: no god, no. Imagine.
probably atrocities, probably anomalies;
probably complaints—and still, who cares?
Sunday, January 1, 2017… no 6 anymore.
Don Lemon’s pierced ear, tequila shots
and a fake wall built on the Washington Ave bridge;
like the Titanic museum in Belfast, UK,
the building is shaped like an iceberg;
where contradictions lie in wait and wait.
A coffee cup of coffee, within it false creamer.
Ersatz-politics adumbrate plastic news, woo.
All for salubrious sorts and their goodly peers.
Have a great time, everyone, welcome to day one.

December 23, 2016

what to expect when you sit down to write a poem

When you sit down to write a poem
it mostly happens. I believe that anyone can do it.
Writing poems is easy, depending on the poems
you write and the audience you write to.
If you were a press and your goal was to make money
off of poems, then your audience would be donors.
I assume they are harder to write to than bloggers.
I guess an idea that blew my mind is
publishers would have competitions
and offer cash prizes and then after they rejected you
they would send out emails about
how they need your money. I never got that.
People asking for donations after they rejected your work,
as if the words you wrote lacked the luster
and the importance of the words of others.
I suppose certain grant writers get more money
for certain words, certain editors need salaries,
and certain ideas hit closer to home.
I mean, I am a father, a husband; I am white and male
(but none of that matters; but identity is chic now);
I have tried hard as any to get to where I am.
I would say I am a poet but by most accounts
and the emails I get, that means I am a failed poet.
I don’t make rent or pay bills off of my work,
it pays in smiles and a sort of pride
that only you and I would understand.
What I do is safe as a handrail on icy stairs.
What I do is very, very, very easy
because doing something you love shouldn’t be hard.
What I do isn’t exactly defined, thankfully;
in a scene you have to either be or not
or just keep going until someone notices you
and either says “shit” or “genius” or “you are that poet”
and that really depends on the time of year
and who you are close friends with,
and what kind of poem you read at the open mic, and how.
So, I have noticed, when you sit down and write a poem
it usually happens, and you can do it,
though I would say most are worried about perfection,
how other people feel about their ideas,
and would hide their art because
it might lack meaning, identity, or a soapbox purpose,
absolutely defined by others in a social vaccuum.
But we will never know. And that is why I wrote this poem
precisely for you. I find it a huge success.
Writing mostly happens, or I guess it doesn’t.
Easy as mom’s Facebook post or Trump’s tweets.
Easy as pressing keys and not marketing.

December 13, 2016

i guess i am afraid too…

i think of our fast time
when and where the fear
holds us tight, when
we tell everyone
how afraid we
are about everything
and anything, everywhere,
so vocally, so knowingly,
and how our ways only
will most likely change that fear.
then i think
about a class that
i took a few weeks back,
one of self-defense, surely,
when and where the
instructor told us all
to not be afraid
of the dark, or not
defend ourselves if we are
and we find ourselves in it.
i mean, it seems so easy,
but the basement can
be really scary, the dark alley
can be truly terrifying,
the misunderstood politician
can seem as the devil incarnate.
and then i remember
looking to outside St Paul,
out on the cold streets,
crusted in white hard snow,
alight with daybreak,
that cold that is out there
in the sun is more
dangerous to us–30 minutes and
you are dead, and that
the summer clothes hanging
in my gloomy basement are
only as scary as i make
them myself, they blow in the wind,
they touch me like shadows,
they do what i tell them
to do in my head. this is what i fear:
the irrational fear of others.
so, i guess i am afraid too…

December 12, 2016

spring break in canada

one time, jess and i drove to canada
in a small chevy truck. we stayed along
lake superior and its blowing winds. thought
cedar greens would snap. got to tofte at

about 8:35pm, couldn’t see the site.
a ranger called that morning told me they plowed it.
slept on hard rock ground, no foam mattress.
woke up found we were at the shoreline,

read a death in venice. made coffee,
warmed fingers, walked in snow. thought
of my dad and how it was 70 in the cities.
we drove north, had pizza at sven and ole’s;

i had a beer, got in the truck; then crossed
the border past an endless sea of pine, rocks,
and blue water mass. got stopped, wouldn’t
let us through. stayed at an airnb…

won loonies at some casino, tipped very well.
everyone asked us why we traveled north for spring break.
drank bulleit rye in a sauna and turned into a jerk.
got lost. got deals at target. watched

forensic files, ate pancakes, and we became
international travelers; drove to another country.
just like that, for a thought. and i don’t
know, thought i would recount that situation.

it was good. crossing borders, it was nice
seeing things outside of an america lens.

December 10, 2016

cold as cold as cold and cspan

it is 6 degrees in frogtown, mn,
i am inside sick watching cspan

and a baby sleep in his rock
& play, wife in the kitchen watching

a cracked screen. my face is full
of snot, head full of congestion, watching

talking heads tell me about “fake news”
and debates and their influences.

(easy, i could take their words for it
they probably don’t care about mine.)

someone wears a bandaid on his cheek;
the president wants a deep dive

investigation; and the red hot chili
peppers had a forgotten album in 2004, says reddit.

i wonder about where i was at that time,
i don’t know how that all factors

into everything, but mostly i care
about what is right here, around me.

wooden floors and naked feet–pallid,
lemon sinks to the bottom of my mug

as a blue whale in the south pacific,
muddy water coffee waits on a tablecloth,

plastic snug on the windows, electrical heaters
and baby toys. a coat hangs slack

like yesterday. i know how hillary
felt when she fell into that van,

now i’m with her. now i am sick.
now i am achy as a lab skeleton cold.

December 8, 2016

bundle up

ere the cold wind
hardened person debacle,
post-repast,
i become less like
those who represent me
and more like myself,
still running from its presence.
we are found, as errant snow
in misplaced cracks
along the street–
never should have been there.
swirling excitedly
at the bus stop proper
under pink and sable skies,
this industry: dying trees, real waits,
away from it all,
lights out in the house,
purely darkened for late payments.
a book stands in my side pocket,
slick along the turns,
a clear door opens, “Hello, sir.”
and then the same door closes again
to shield me from it.
ere the cold wind, just as
it touches me whole.

December 1, 2016

fake news/ fake people

fake news
is
actually
news,
like
fake people
are
actually
people.
i mean
think
about it.
how many
fake
plants
do you
see in
your office
each
day, and say:
damn,
those aren’t
real
plants,
i won’t
see
what they
have
to say
about
things.

November 16, 2016

stupid ideas.

probably i think
i would protest personal vanity
put forth my actual self
to volunteerism
and positive thought
as the world burns to said ashes,
as the sun goes out to black.

or probably i think
i might just sit where
i am, in regular shit.
figure it out closely,
a new way to complain
to go against
age old systems that
do affect us all,
(NO ONE IS SPECIAL)
in certain ways,
and learn myself how to
smile at the plight.

i could do all that, but
there is a house to clean,
there is work to be attended to,
there is love to make,
smiles to have,
bills to pay, food to buy,
student debt to fret,
clothes to mend, diapers to change,
poor property management,
thoughts to have to make
it happen like it should,
only hopefully,
so i buy lottery tickets.

probably i think
to forget that thought,
and turn into a robot
no passion, no spunk,
just regular person,
no complaints, really,
just motion and task,
nothing not to love.

because they said dreams like that
are really just dreams,
so shut up and dance,
stop being so negative because
everyone is a known poet
arguing something, protesting everything
for there is air in their lungs
and everyone has ears.

so you are
just like everyone else,
and in ways, far better off
for having such a thought
and now they’re talking snow.

October 18, 2016

introduction, american opinion

meet melting pot america.
meet freedom of speech.
meet upset by freedom of speech.
meet why so mean america?

meet wow, i am confused.
meet holy shit, what freedom?
meet let’s change this idea.
meet we try to do and do right.

meet not broken don’t fix it.
meet individual in a group.
meet thoughts of talk and action.
meet make, make, make, and make.

meet comes with the territory.
meet that’s life, so they say.
meet i love Dr. Seuss…
meet cry baby, why baby?

meet the reality that is, and why.
meet why change, instead love.

October 16, 2016

trumpscare

this Hercules coffee
& sleepless dreams,
got me shaking the cold off,
happy to be seen.