Posts tagged ‘South Minneapolis’

October 29, 2014

The Silverado on Blocks

In an upscale neighborhood,
There is a truck what sits on blocks;

Stuck out as a sore thumb.

Hard to miss,
Even in thick morning fog.

Standing sepia in darkness
High on taut tied stacks;
Set out afternoon before,
Recycled paper compact.

An act of sheer convenience leveled,
What leisure for these thieves.
Owner’s shocked face contorted,
When they walk out to see.

Nothing quite changes the feeling of comfort
As a thief’s malignant and distasteful way.

May 5, 2014

Pre-Game Summer (Mayday 2014)

Of early summer days, at the parade:

When late hands adorn grease and dirt,
Evidence produced of work and worth.

Beer stains on shirt-
What’s worse?

A face tight from sun bright;

Smile with deep lazy pride,
A good hurt.

Rode through
Commuting by
What exercise?
What a great time.

Things not done in winter,
Don’t think of that,

–Think of that.

Minnesotans had become bitter;
Now back.

In groups we relax.

Clear skies managed weather apropos for on-the-go.


Until night

With the cricket songs
And the crowds gone

We ride our way back,
And wake with the morning light.

May 3, 2014

Performance Art near Bryant-Lake Bowl

Jägermeister and biers
Then kicked out to the street
We were there for a bit
Then we had to leave

Flew round at sun-down
In scintillated light
Flew down for the evening
I was riding my bike

On Portland Ave.
They exclaim
They might see me

On Portland Ave.
I came
Wheels beneath me

Oh the drunk bastard is dry
Give him his rye
Oh that fucker; mean guy
Let sleeping dogs lie

He is less than me;
His reality is obscene
He is not next to me
He is underneath

Oh, Oh, Oh, and so on…

–No description at all,
None to recall
Was he fat or fit?
Was he thick-haired or bald?

Who judges this person?
Who judges discretely- who calls?
What you see with your eyes
Is described differently by us all

What company we keep
What of those we meet
Was it a pleasant surprise?
Or a disappointment in the least-

Again I sit with local celebrities
I have to ask pressing questions
Are names just minor discrepancies?
Are they darlings for our attention?

Goodbye Auf Wiedersehen
On to new situations
On the street forward making
On to splendid occasions

To Bryant-Lake Bowl
In a car we drove
For a stroll, for a go
Exposing deeply our souls

In reddened pale light
A girl died one night
This scene of present sight:
Some mixed up fight

Blurred pictures remain
No date and no name
Was a crying shame
We drank that day

Now we look
Broken on the curb
A collapsed man
Drunk and absurd

Too blind to stand tall
Not at all looking proud
He had something to say
Thick mumbling aloud

We walked towards and down
His adversaries stood over
We watched stepping around
While still moving closer

Blood on the street;
He on the ground
Level with feet
He made a pitiful sound

A bald man in cahoots
Was reciting him his lesson
2 men were to explain
Their benign intentions

Questions of: “Did you strike him first?”
What’s the story?
“Have you done cocaine tonight?”
Boy! Don’t you ignore me!

He was obviously not sober
After a few inspections
Words weren’t coming out right
Aphasia for reflection

They stood at the door; shoulder to shoulder
He: a sad pile of bones in a suit sat
Looking younger rather than older
We 3 strolled along light hitting as we passed

Waiting for a taxi cab
The 2 guys had to explain
One of them shouted,
“He said he had AIDS!”

“He blew blood our way!”
There he lay in subdued shock and dismay
He could not get up
So there he would stay

Now no one touched him
Confused little looks
They went about their business
Scot-free lucky crooks

Moved by this art
The blood drops dark red
Spread thick while inches apart
Trail of liquid which lead

A few more steps
And we were at the door
We took our seats
After chair legs screeched the floor

In most of my glory
Contemplation of sport
Of what we had seen
I was staring straight, completely absorbed

How did I get here again?
And what the fuck just happened?
Man in his stasis; we’ve likely had these days
It’s 20/20 vision to talk of others in such ways.
I don’t know what you do,
And I don’t care
That’s where I was,
I was there.

August 11, 2013

End of Work Observation

End of Work Observation,

By Terry Scott Niebeling


“When I’m not looking for anything I find everything.”





Watched bugs fly; they flashed sparks white under the hot parking-lot lights.

Sitting in the A/C cooled yellowing dim-light dining space.


Sippin’ a beer with pork and nettles.


Ace in the hole,

No story to tell.


No drama foreseen about to unfold.

All is well.


Stacked silver on plates to be taken away.


Just watching distant wings hit, flutter, flap and sputter, fleeting dust as dark colors crept in.





Everyone’s like this and that…  I’m like, man, what the hell?  

June 12, 2013

Overcoming The Future @loftliterary

After the drunken interactions, bike accidents, moving, and ill words, starting the day out with work seemed somewhat refreshing.


J.J. sits next to me exhausted, however, happy not to be cleaning out apartments in the summer heat.


Dead flowers and ornaments lined the paths we walked, remnants crumpled under feet.

Memories of our lives lined the paths we walked, lost with loss, a tangible defeat.


Now we see.

Now we hardly speak.



Now step to the sea, feel reason.

The past was a lesson, like the passing of seasons.


All pressure and then release.

Subtle while discrete.


Writing of what we had midday on the black hot paved street.

Evening rain soon washed away the chalk.

Milky puddles were all to be seen.

A natural deed.


Mad at the steps for being so hard on the feet.

Straight-line conclusion amidst a fork in the road, an easy path is not taken by those who are bold.

Now I see.

May 13, 2013

American Money/How Thoughtful of You

I stand in a land where Weathermen lie and people hide inside two-thirds of the year.

3 different pairs of shoes-my daily allotment, you can walk them if you care to try.


Remember though, somethings are not as easy as they appear.

Jack of all trades, master of none.


At times, so broke I want to cry; however, still working most days for a portion of payment to pay rent, and also most nights.


Part-time logic, I won’t pander to pension.

My 401K will have to start another day.

If I get hurt at work it won’t get mentioned.


What’s money made of, a few pennies?  How many?

Not many to me.

Not many to me.

There are a few coins in my pocket.

Motion to pants, white fabric, inside-out, you see?


Budget is like: check to check.

Live on tips.

Die on debt.

Yet, “Competitors bested,” challenges met.


I make enough to exist plain and clearly, to notice all grandeur near me, but when I drive I won’t maneuver a fancy sports car as I go by.


I realize it doesn’t cost much to pedal.

So, ride bikes.


All that, and still I don’t have kids, and still I’m not on a government program; food stamps and such.

Was while growing up.

Ditched that when I didn’t like the lunch, and then I got a job I didn’t like much.


I think it funny that America didn’t find money in train systems and bikes, they found more profit in rubber, oil, and all the problems in your life: Petrol, tires, and prescription medication.

This is some of my situation.

February 12, 2013

Coins In My Pocket

Snow on the ground mixed with ice seems nice.

There is less cold with precipitation; therefore, less frustration in sight.


In this weather I am just Minneapolis All Right.


Turning to the side to sneeze, in light of the sun.

Vitamin D locked and loaded, I welcome any errant rays, as it replenished my ways.

Staying focused.


Spun on my worn boots, laced to waterproof.

The temperature is heat aloof.

A mirage of warm light from sparkling snow is a natural spoof.


Walk past the traffic, pedestrians, bicyclists, and laborers at the intersection of Hennepin and 3rd; everyone going everywhere in Northeast Minneapolis, everyone busy assured.


Absorbing visual tags and stickers created by local geniuses.

I wonder if they know what kind of scene this is.


Walk on-unseen, unheard, existing in a world so absurd.

Through a parking ramp proper, through humanoid ant flow, in and out of Lund’s for sustenance I go.


Mink fur shine; a glare below, I am pondering present and past tense.

I keep my head up though.

Pondering rent, and how I used to get bent.

I keep above my lowest low.

My days were spent early and late, living with no time to relate.


Society as a whole:  Supermarketable.



Ads on everything, subtracting from life.

Sobriety (in moderation) has made me more reckless and relevant to my delight.


More rational and less bashful, written material-there’s a trash can full, for the hell of it.

Can’t tell the shit from the wit.


The connoisseur can express.


An amazing minute downtown has revealed that capitalism is abound and surrounds.

It says, I don’t care about you personally, what are your finances?


My dad said you served the Yuppies, good thing you got out.

My mom said I love you, no matter what you do, with or without.

The CEO said, who are you, what can you give me, is that gluten free, is that organic juice?

I suppose it all is true, we do what have to do to get on and get through.


Now, inside:

A panacea of color robbed my eyes of their fixed flat accustoms; winter months had stripped the tangent brightness from daily life.

Except for the white.

Except for the bright.

Except for the night.


Hey, I’d rather be a starving artist.

Hey, the Pope quit too.

Hey, God, this must be a sign.

Hey, Terry, this was overdue.


I stuck my gloves in my pockets and heard a sound and felt what was arranged.

The coins in my pocket signify change.

I walked forward through the snow.

December 3, 2012

This Day, Her Day

Lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling he thought:


This Day-Her Day



Real-life-Good Times

Alliteration-Great Minds


No Idea-In the Clear

Out of beer-Out of Here


Summer days-Winter Months

Bike to Work-Eat Lunch


Rake the Leaves-Sit Inside

Slap her Ass-Forget the Pride


Hungover-Sober Judge

No more Headaches-A lot more Love


Fun times-Fun times


Every Day-Hard Times

Semi-Pro-Novice Rhymes


No Insurance-No Church

Feeling Better-Feeling Worse


Most Days-Hardly Sit

Look Around-Take it In


He threw the blankets aside and rose from his bed to do it again…

Only to do it again.

But this time while looking in the mirror he said, “Hello my friend.”


Then I thought:

How much does your book weigh?

It’s heavier than my remote.


Then I experienced:

And J said, “You are so positive.”

I said, “If you aren’t positive, what can you be?”

J said, “Negative.”

And I said, “No, not me.”


Another day, another dollar, broke scholar.

Keep reading and writing.

So enlightening it’s frightening.




December 3, 2012

Warm Holiday

Cold pills, neglected bills, cough drops, and James Bond thrills sat on a night stand.

That’s what I found when I came back.


Imagine my day; a car load of family and words; letter games the whole way, a lot to say.

From: La Crescent to Whittier-South, now, guests in my house.

Thanksgiving Night: Small travel and a conversation at an organic orchard (Literally, Hoch Orchard); 10 foot fence, nothing held back-transparent intent-now, I am thinking of you.


If you come up we won’t bone, just thought you should know.

_That’s what she said.

So I know.

I replied with the same message, and told her I thought she should know.


The wind blew through the white plastic structure, she walked the long gravel driveway, as she came near I could see the orangish-red ember of her cigarette appear.

Dark bluffs rose in the foreground.

Two shadowy houses sat in the distant, an outdoor fluorescent light blanketed the nearest sides.

I told her she couldn’t bring the smoke inside my mother’s ride.


We waited in the gale for her leaves to turn to ash, then we drove back.

She sat as I drove slow, we laughed.


Hours passed.


Lock the gate when you leave, abandon me, avoid the electricity.


Drive the dark windy dirt road home.


All alone; while staring into that rearview, listening to my soul.


Sometimes it hurts to be clever.

Remember, I never feel bad about anything ever.


My mom beat me in the word game, we all laughed together.

I wish we could drive back from a family holiday like that forever.




November 6, 2012

Coffee, Reading, and Votes 11/5/12-11/6/12

More material than a craft store…

Starting word wars with scholarly whores.


But, anyway, we wake up in the same bed, problem solved.


And that one time began like this:

A Cat in a window with different colored eyes.

Light blue and light green, contrast clearly defined.


Walking to the cafe to spend a few dollars.


A pumpkin ahead smashed to death on the side-

walk right by to Bob’s for java and the warmth inside.


To open up my eyes.

Just to open my eyes.


I sat back, watching peers through a window as they went on with their lives.


Contemplate the day; a pint earlier, though it was morning, but not before sunrise.

I was patient, life then was boring.

I couldn’t find a surprise.


A modest work for a modest pay: the modern modest’s only way.


Art, Drink, Sleep, Fuck, Write, Etc…

Shut off the light and pray you’ll make it through the night.

Breakfast of champions.

Feeling cramped again.


Start the day.

As they say:


What are you doing with your time?

Are you still studying?

Brain bubbling?

No, not really, I am just waiting to quit.

I’m loving it, reading a lot.  You know-

Books are legit…


And minding my own fucking business.



(Then I listened about)


Anxiety of national responsibility on their lips.

It sets in, as hearts dip.


Even worse my Ma is sick.

I am thinking B.I.G., I am thinking dark and tired, I am thinking about starting a fire.


Trying to be inspired.

Bukowski said don’t try-its written in stone above his catacomb.


It’s the water around it.


Don’t doubt the happenings at a glance.

Wait to review the past.

Then think before you act.


And I was tired moments later.


(Then I listened about in another direction)


The Beatles were playing and everyone was buzzing about politics.


January 20th, 2013 everything will change.

They say.

The tea is warm and tastes a bit bitter,

I thought.

The coffee smelled swell and everything was well.

We all sat, we were all lost in thought.


Then I took off.


Warm place downtime.


A transgender lady spoke to a gentleman about stance as David Bowie played one of his classics.

I finished a book and couldn’t find the right words.


God damn, I can’t wait until tomorrow is over.

You can’t say that everyday.