Posts tagged ‘Same’

June 25, 2017

i notice and i think you should too

i will tell you, if you want to be unique,
differently skewed and
especially noticed or adulated where you are,
dont be a poet.
coffee and beer are my fuel during this grey day;
opposites like that do attract, like defined words and me.
(Sunday morning coming down,
wrote this yesterday while
teaching students how to speak Midwestern English in other countries (plural).
i could say i am international by now, wont.)
(anyway) to get noticed, get a real job,
work very hard every day, and
mind your own personal business
in this capitalistic venture,
otherwise known as your broken dream land,
otherwise known as real life.
dont take photos to share on social media;
nor add filters for likes, #NoFilters.
nor wear a bunch of makeup
to make up for your flawed human makeup.
nah, you needn’t do that.
just be, thats really real and really noticed.
people think you got a problem then.
tell them to unplug and not scroll.
my breath applauds me, my feel stings as truth alone.
that would be unique in a world where going viral on CNN Breaking BS
or standing on 94 W or E rebelling pointedly,
maybe cutting off ambulance service to someones grandmas dilemma,
like the rest of the thoughtful group
over 12 peers turned to one loathsome local department,
under adjectives: fascist, systematic, murderers et al.,
is considered some sort of special star sticker and truly esoteric
and great advocacy and activism novel, true, poignant, necessary.
but i understand sort of, well i do…
it seems too obvious and you know it…
you do.
products of media brought to you by you and look at those pricey ads.
so go ahead and think,
how can i not be like them, working for someone who doesnt pay me,
the others that do the same thing (as others)
that i do, yet with more good friends
with more important memberships
with heavy solicitations–sell my books, ever heard of pulp?
pulping happens.
with more performances at more trendy publishing houses
at more hipster coffeehouses.
i also wrote a poem today that wont get noticed.
like everyone else(s).
it is bigger than pale generalizations.
more complex than a Saltine cracker
and its box–squarely.
you know, i wont put some same sign in my shitty yard
for people to like.
for i dread mowing and wont water for more work.
the neighbors enjoy my company already, go ask.
there isnt enough space on it already too,
to say what i want to say, with open meaning,
and it wont make the community feel better anyway
because no group backs it, i havent donated to prove i believe,
and because it would say: each individual should do better
themselves as a unique individual, individualists themselves.
because if it were that easy to fix the neighborhood, with signs,
then everyone would be doing it…
and if the doorhandle opens the door i won’t fix it either.
even if i kick the door in and the handle is still on it,
then probably the doorhandle still works.
like poetry–it doesnt take much really.
getting noticed though…
so i dont know what else to write,
that’s true or fiction or thought.
besides: nothing special here, just i notice(d)
and i think you should too.

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March 23, 2017

so much variety a person couldn’t find the same publisher in a room of twin publishers, with the same ideologies and inspirations and movements and where their coffers catch ($)

conform
or be
ignored.

July 22, 2016

encouragement

i duly note that dashed dreams
and commonplace tragedies
are not exclusive to any party
in particular whatsoever;
though after, it’s about picking
oneself up, though after, it’s
about how you crawl from
your imminently destined grave.

you,
so…

May 10, 2016

individual

your
sermon
dance
is different
than mine
and mine to
you different
the same
making us
akin alike
making
us very
plain

August 14, 2015

American Mammal

A bright sun crawls over
a hot sunroof to meet
the working day,
as bulbs on a computer screen flash,
amass the made up page.
Men and women slip
underneath, characteristics
become unaccounted for.
Unknowing they go, thinking alone,
believing in bold font & sharp tones—
subjective as fact, living each & every
day for a quick read, drink, and a sweet snack.
Then they are taken, as every other,
to a grand pasture, heaven.
Set out free on their own accord—
until a fence is met.
How quickly their heavy chains they forget,
how relaxed their time was spent.

They are mammals all the same,
animals until their dying day.

August 11, 2015

Epiphany at a U Slam Event

To my astonishment
there was none—

people were content
with old formulas
and bad news.

The “best poet I know”
spoke there.

It was a real treat.

***

Knowing that,
I can sleep a lot, a lot easier.
Yawn.

July 27, 2015

Twin Cities Poets and Publications

The only change they want
is the change they make,

even if it’s the same.

July 8, 2015

Minneapolis Offers A Melting Pot Literary Scene

Sure, they tell you to
join their literary groups
in order to get your words read,
in order to get your art noticed,
in order to make an impression on
the blossoming local scene.

Well, it’s just that: local,
and it still is, that’s it.

And a person can become
an organization alone.

Few think about a broad world
where 9 billion people might enjoy
everything or nothing that the creative
text you wrote has to offer…

Yeah, I think, gatherings are good for some—
those who need crutches for strong legs,
or those who need stitches for band aids.

Those who need editors
to change their ideas
so they will sell
and morph into comfortable writers.

I need approval
from institutions to feel good
about myself,
imagine that.

That would have to be
my anti-motto, something I truly avoid.

Ha! Such jokes…

Years back no one would read
new cognitive prose,
my free work, no one would talk
about it,
zero recognition—I certainly wasn’t overseas then,
and I still am as called before
a “failed writer”.

Everyone was doing their own thing;
others were not as important,
it was about self—well, selfishness,
but on the side there was
a feigned pack mentality.

The only change they wanted
was the change they made.

Now poets go around
and pretend as though
everyone in the Cities
should get involved,
because what they were doing
back then, individually didn’t work,
so lets band together.

It didn’t pan out for them.
Their dreams came only at REM.

So, now they organize cliques,
they establish large groups into
bad plays on high society hierarchy,
the kind of thing that real
artists have vehemently loathed.

They set their own rules, now,
and their own guidelines—
if you can’t beat them join them—
yeah, good idea.

What a theory,
such lack of heart.

I think in this case
to become a part of it,
to get to the epicenter,
to get to the whole,
to be welcomed into this special circle,
the imaginary self-actualized poet,
non-starving artist,
famous, you-know-me sort of thing,

you would have to admit defeat,
you would have to admit you lost,
and that your initial passions
were complete shit.

You would probably have to change your ways,
attempt to be more like them—
assimilate, like the rest,
figure hip dress, obscure verse,
employ ten-dollar words,
cloned topics—of course gendered,
racial, anthropological, progressive,
and leftist political,
try for universal acceptance, right here.

***

Yawn, I say,
describe a situation,
an actual event:

CC was on 4th street SE at the bus stop,
she had forgotten my name,
her lips were red,
she said she had a new job.

I rode away on a bike
while passing out flyers.

***

I mean, you might as well kill progress,
just so your road is less rocky.
Leave change by the wayside,
never go against the grain.

A conformist mentality
will help you fit in better,
don’t ya know?

Your personality, your ideology discussed
only in past-tense phraseology and terms,
it all must go.

More of the same than Minnesota lakes.

But then you think about
how you were once a unique person,
an artist, that no one read,
no one cared about,
and how it was fun doing what you loved.

People read, they were baffled, confused,
or were turned off—or became aroused.

Now you do it to please others,
while not pleasing yourself,
while pandering to their ways.

They stare, they clap, they record,
they namedrop, to charm the masses, for a club,
to be accepted, to be loved for being
something that they are entirely not.

No way.

See, I imagine that.
I fancy fickle easy artists,
they travel in bands
with big words and little action.

One would have to sell off
their creative soul
to even try to get involved.

I imagine fellatio costs less,
either way they get ahead.

Am I in Hollywood?
It’s so confusing.

June 23, 2015

Fixed Mesh

Barefooted feet sounded aloud the carpeted hallway,
Where people passed in sunlight of a side window view;
Forms drew on, each bearing a different meaning—each,
New reason passed by, as all parts came meshed true.

April 19, 2015

A Unique Poetry Slam,

where difference is proclaiming your hardships
in the same way as everyone else.