Posts tagged ‘scene’

April 28, 2017

success story

today’s modern success story:
create a meme that
everyone enjoys, something clever,
something liberal but not free.
maybe you do it on FB…
don’t lose friends while you are at it.
get it to go viral,
maybe 1 billion likes, MAYBE–god that would be great,
(and you forget to monetize that shit)
especially on YouTube
however don’t say what you actually think
because they will
shut down your channel… make it pc, appease me.
start a meaningful movement with
the aforementioned clever idea/meme.
go out and cause a scene, disrupt and scream,
and no justice no peace, believe, be seen.
get asked to go out and repeat.
as i have been, “Terry would you like to speak?”
no i have to have surgery on my teeth…
get your followers to believe.
go out by any means, by any means.
you know what I mean.
become a major success.
place all your bets, no frets.
and then realize that
likes on facebook or twitter
or any livestreams
or insta
or on the local stations
or in the local coffeehouses
or in the local publications
or on all the scenes
wont pay your rent.
won’t pay your college debt.
wont buy drinks for your friends.
won’t be enough to pretend you have affluent parents.
you get what you get: nothing.
you only make money for the people that
trick you into being a part of it,
you are the product of advertisement,
you work for free, for them.
now, go out and find a second job,
because your lovely dreams
are just things you
wake up from,
as snowflakes in the sun,
as the bill collectors keep calling and calling.

Advertisements
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.

November 8, 2016

“heyday”

on the early TV alone
with my whole rolled oats
sometime this morning
i wonder about
photography of our great city.
or the station programemed me that.
how on earth does one
get a book on all channels
during election season
at the most opportune time,
just months before
holidays like christmas–
where this sort of
coffee table aesthetic is hot?
what kind of names to know?
i mean i want to publish to pay.
oh, and Prince died
and Babes In Toyland are best friends,
just picture that. those stills.
i kind of want to check out his title.
i kind of want a ticket
to that museum to see
the innards royalty didn’t
want anyone to see, privacy: Paisley Park.
now just for money.
seemed like a good guy,
seemed like an artist,
i wonder about connections,
i wonder how this time
on these networks is arranged…
call me, let’s set up a time.
now my oatmeal sets in its bowl,
now the weather and something new.
Blair Walsh is being challenged.
tell us to vote and who for.
read between the programs.
what new text should i buy next?

May 28, 2016

mill city farmer’s market

all the dogs, kids, babies wrapped, framed glasses, young and old, unpotted plants, jarred goods, dark corners–green, passing glances, new movie–new drama, new play: this life; capitalism, theatre, chefs on wheels, circus donuts, french cuisine croissants, organic, ham & cheese, natural, unconventional, cemented, photographed, painted, produced product soon to be purchased, some with cameras capture, stacked red brick, grey antiquated silos, expensive strollers, progressive shoes, obvious fashion–uptown, trending, voluptuous crimson flowers in jetblack stands wet under overcast and old industry, windowpane mirrors to their looking-glass self, vain vanity, standing, walking, waiting, exchanging money–dirty dinged, marketing to the reader–know what they like, showing, seeing, watching, staring, a part of it apart, breaking up lines, holding bags, spoken in broken inquiry and trailing text, cellphones attracting, selfies, a standard saturday morning, portrait untrained, looking for the next big thing next to the mighty mississippi, lovers holding hands: small parade, saying that is “interesting” and that is “funny” all in one rolled up ball, the life passing the torch in the center of mill city; here neighborhoods and neighbors converge just doing their weekend thing while others do their weekend thing this weekend at this bizarre bizaar of the farmer’s market crowd locally famous feigning outdoorsyness, notice my attention, epicenter aloof, just walking around individual circumstance, something for profit with a non-profit feel, feeling good but not doing good, and how others have planned their situations at the moment going by mine going by theirs going by. and gone.

March 10, 2016

gratitude (only joking)

i would like to give thanks
to the group of artists &
poets for finding myself,
excluding me in what
would be a city musing
hell, the fording grounds
where we share likeness,
but really we don’t, really.
i found better in labored
shit, humored in the mix,
constantly waking to do
something that I didn’t
truly enjoy, living the fear
of hard judgement betwixt
going-ons and so-so works.
yeah, i found it all where
you weren’t, it was good
to not see you there, it
was good to see some actual.

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

August 18, 2015

gnats in the wine

chewing it over—for what it’s worth;
last night’s me in southeast, and
the now going—nothing if not present,
on along como. proof in breath,
change the set. focus, and
then content with content.
the blinker light orange clicks,
the cracked window let’s cool air in.
if morning is broken, how shall we fix it?
fixating on what’s been given—so gifted.
and that taste in your mouth, and
that frown on your face—those things can be
given away. over 280 at about 30 and
it’s barely 7:40. midday convo mid-moment;
spit-balling my life, just a thought: let’s talk.
then everything will be all right.

May 1, 2015

Difference

a day, a day,
to
wake
and
maintain.

a day, a day,
cash
coffee
conversation,
culture contained.

a day, a day,
one
is
never
the same.

a day, a day
where’s
my
change?

April 5, 2015

Grain Belt Sign

Looking over the tanned Hennepin Avenue Bridge
where a shaded Grain Belt sign still won’t shine.

Here too, Nicollet Island looms in an aromatic Spring night,
shadowed by new and ancient high-rises, boxes of floors,

holes of light, standing against the straightening northern winds.
These apartments of the departed—mills and factories and dreams,

ghosts left for better times and warmer climes.
They no more see the Guthrie above a scintillating river’s distance,

no more spiraling down Gold Medal Park pathways
through thick buggy twilights, in tow bags full of books and beer

slung over shoulders, no more here; new eyes peer.
No more boats or barges pass through the upper lock and dam

loaded with local commodities, as pedestrians stroll along St. Anthony Main
catching a movie, drinking and spending, as tangled trees

build up and obstruct the Mississippi flow below Central, sounding wetness,
sounding to south. For this sign there is no more light.

Right here, remembering this unlit hallmark as headlamps
of cars buzz flashing by, on dotted pot-holed streets,

we on feet, bumble through dialogue of what we read and where we’ve been.
This sign now is painted black as it watches over downtown in the fore,

were it shining off of the muddy waters, were it catching in cigarette smoke
exhaled, were it meeting pupils and blazing that scene on some

grey matter fold in a viewer’s mind, it would still be lit up there,
hanging above a tanned bridge, in its gold, black, white, and red.

March 18, 2015

Local Imaginaries

Observe the scattered common stones of these Twin Cities,
dusting sidewalks crumbled—ubiquitous,
taken in hand at foot, and thrown to,
from a bridge’s span above fast flowing currents of the Mississippi below.

Here flies to splash an artistry tangible,
before honest spoken words,
a sharp tone in tender ears,
which is contrast to what’s pictured:

Seen drawn lines,
Seen paintings bright,
Seen music made,
Seen night life.

Though observe them,
they are outside, heads aloft in thick-clouded dreams,
banded, mouths in perpetual motion,
hands seldom untied,
broken parts of stone—
proof over talking about the scene you’ve seen.

How those stones have accrued.

***

Some things get overlooked,
some things get stepped on;
other things get talked about profusely;
What of art does one hear?