Posts tagged ‘song’

July 19, 2017

american times with jim morrison

our heads of dead fuses
our mouths agape true voids
a spectacle for wires
a mind melts to ash, to lava
thoughts run thin, amok
edgewise at horizons flesh
horizontal at still birth
vertical at death above a sink
eyes cutting the mirrors veneer
blood wet like new glue
mind between here and there
mostly gone anon along
and someone was something-else
as the church bells rang like a lost phone
and the doors closed tightly
to darkness and morning like
vacated loving foreign tenants
of our american times
of our american times

Advertisements
March 31, 2015

Right/Wrong

Some wrong is right, some right is wrong;
the only matter is who sings the song.

August 29, 2014

Minneapolis, The Production.

Filched every best part of art,
of everything.
Singing in the rain
as if a poignant destiny.

Blessings of death
and the mounting of enemies,
over the stone arch bridge
on two rims,
bubbles and scum,
Mississippi muddy brown waters below.

Then we eat, sleep, drink, and move on.

Tattoos and body piercings
Ostentatious Restaurants.
Underground Hip-Hop
and Poetry- the life, so long…

A million extras with a million extra lines; you see the conundrum.
Oh, the Cheeky Bastard.

A problem with me,
probably
Attitude,
something rude.

Perhaps.

Transcendentalists and progressives, pass aggressive.
Just listen to those intellectuals. (How Special)

Bowel movements
have caused more pain
with more tact and significance,
more movement,
and,
yet, who knows the difference?

Faces are wearing half-hearted pleas of forgiveness, wholly realistic.
– Yellow toothed Grimace.

– Some greyed with fluoride.

– Dentists to witness.

On a real morning
in the real rain
with real useless thoughts,
another really real day.

Overcast above skinny jeans,
mind over matter,
beer filled bladder.

-What we’ve gained.
Promising to keep promises
Walking home just to kick dirt
Flat-tire again- spare me your words.

Unable to afford trivial debate; I stand at a deficit.

Nicollet downtown slicked squares
cut from somwheres- elsewheres.

Reading books to stay relevant;
vintage classics, or course,
Conversations alone,
clean-cut brilliance, absurd.

Excuse me Mr. Artist, can you paint a picture?
Anytime.
Can you write a song?
Any tune, with any rhyme.
Can you sell millions upon millions?
Hopes and dreams, divine.
Can you deal with the adoring throngs- fanfare, that is…

Kids beat drums on the streets,
attempt at viral video,
as the beggar creates a compelling story (wife, child, car, broken, needs, hospital)
Let me give a little-

I spend time at the liquor store too.

Questions: Do I invest in this practice?
Or do I keep ignoring?
Investigate the occasion,
I mean, I guess, I live in poverty too…

No snow on the sidewalk,
just shoes.
Heat index and sweat,
rugged, as it proves.

No ice- or melting with salt under foot,
hanging cigarette ash on stiff upper lip.

Pedestrians that give real looks
External cost magazine crooks.

Signs in downtown read: affluence, success, money.
Neon lights of red, yellow, green, blue and orange,
They sparkle and shimmer in cold and warm,
even in the daylight morn, bikers, buses, taxis, sparkle adorn.

Then the director yells: CUT!!!
And the lights go dim on the set of Minneapolis.

July 16, 2014

Morning Has Broken

Morning has broken,
Plants, people, and mechanisms are touched by light.

Strange concepts we call life.

Buses roll out onto Dalmatian-potholed streets
as sun hits gazing eyes.

Water beads bejewel, adorning the
perfectly cut blades of
verdant grass.

Trash men collect garbage
swishing and slopping repugnant trash.

Commuters traverse out and through; up and down,
all around
big-small town.

This is no winter,
summer months of reprieve;
warm,
hot to sweat,
we lay at the beach.

Though always in motion;

The never still late nights,
even if we embody the hard to wake early mornings.

City Morgen
Intensely inviting,
Enticing to the outsider
a spider’s web for those who call it home.

You are here today
Taking it in-
on some corner of some neighborhood
in some way.

Lucky you,
Morning has broken.

February 9, 2013

It Ain’t The Prettiest (Midwest In General)

A bunch of much of the same; Midwest-mold ubiquitous like the plague.

Break the routine like sinking into a grave.

 

I hear it on the radio, I see it in print.

 

Seen it, done it, heard it before.

I wonder, how long of a stint?

 

How much more, how much more?

 

Shit-sound galore.

Shit-material, what’s the score?

 

As if underground hip-hop is Amateur Hour Club at the dive, or just horribly inarticulate karaoke.

Something to be, don’t be.

Are you doing this jokingly?

 

Coffee from place to place.

The good stuff.

State your case, case your state.

 

Jumping on trend like an almost missed bus.

Jumping on love like lust.

Then bust.

 

As if Portland is Minneapolis.

Getting coal in exchange for your Christmas Wish List.

 

As if vise versa, or versa vice.

Who gives a shit, right?

 

As if La Crosse is cultured.

All progress has been haltered.

 

I’ll drink a beer on it.

 

The holidays are over, winter should be gone.

The year 2012 is over, you should be gone.

Why not go to the nearest local Coffee Shop and write an inspiring song?

 

Too much on my plate to save space, save time, save face.

 

Back to earth without a trace.

Cool beans, I love you too.

 

I am all right.

 

Passive aggressive, throwing it up like it’s the flu.

Done with the mundane typical spew.

 

Amy Winehouse is dead.

The Current is begging for money.

The government is still funny.

 

I’d rather talk same sex marriage and control of guns.

I’d rather talk homeless people on the streets and my lack of funds.

 

How about you?

 

Bowie came out and did it again.

Came out and did something boring, my friend.

 

Prince is talking about sex, breakfast, and an orange juice and vodka drink, and what do people think?

Such a genius, he is on the brink.

 

We came for the Atmosphere and left when we heard of The Chalice.

Breaking through the sacred palace of this fruitful scene, thinking:  I will literally burn this motherfucker down, I promise you, I mean this.  P.O.S. can throw as many

Molotov cocktails as possible, Tyler Durden is on my side.

 

Freddie Mercury called, he wants all of his ideas, sounds, moves, and lyrics back.

 

I have something to be excited about:  Something different, something advanced, something true.

 

You just got Ninja Mind Fucked.