Posts tagged ‘Terry Scott Niebeling’

October 23, 2016

delineate the fall, scene 1

mornings like these
leaves come crashing
through the limbs
of stiffening trees

where fat squirrels
bound like jack rabbits
in search of
something to call winter shelter

inside the silhouette paint
of an autumnal tie-dye day
thermometers point,
inside, they spin at change

what sound of cut silence
delineated by robins call
a bus, the 67 going by,
Pileated Woodpecker
and a “V” flown southeast

our house cat mows grass at
my pale naked feet,
on some cool broken sidewalk
merely rented–what to own?

entryway of flowery vine
as stairs coming alive
at this venture of fallen
dead photosynthesis–dry leaf dying

i imagine if it
thought to spark a moment
in the morning mind
of some drifter standing

i imagine it like
it was some actor being told
to “ACTION!” by
some muted invisible god
in the distance biding its time

(fall to the set)

October 16, 2016

trumpscare

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

September 4, 2016

apathy and highways

52 south past Greg’s Meats and a spired oil refinery,
if i were a plotting baddy it would be Mount Rushmore
for symbolism and confusion of the masses.
an open highway before us: droves on phones,
and couples on parade; the rich in their luxury sedans
and country in super duty small dick specials.
dashboard view of master photography, one that could
inspire a journey home, or west, or to new horizons,
something bold and powerful like in health magazines;
in old lands, which are new and no one could care less—
it means something on instagram or facebook or twitter
but beyond it’s malarkey. but really, i usually wonder about
the next rest stop; Gatorade makes me shit and coffee
makes me piss and light nagging hangovers do wonders
for my guilt and humbleness. kids on the way, us kids.
a dog barks in the morning minus its shock collar. this escapism
from a city to a town, needing to find something in nothing,
no more labels that matter, just gathering cut wood
from neighbors who are dead and the living ones
didn’t like their beautiful red and green maple trees,
still we did. logs season enough in a year to make
smoke, to make fuel, ash, what we rode in on. washed and
cleaned and we pulled our mirrors out and met meine Schwestern
am die Ecker squealing tires, snapchated that.
and then we were off to southern homes like ma’s pasta,
like baked goods revamped, like a road less traveled
what should be traveled more. sunday mornings
waiting for the paper, fixing engines to make money.
all is well, birds can tell, and i don’t get their songs.

August 15, 2016

Hope.

i woke up
learned,
tired of some sleep,
ready for fall,
August flowers
hanging off
a 1920’s
wooden mantel,
waiting for
new weather,
tasting fresh
coffee,
hoping for
brilliance
in commutes,
friendships,
ideals,
and openness
in modern
minds where
they won’t
find it.
i beg of travel
and good health,
the way
family used to
years before
all the funerals
started
to happen.
i need
better ghosts
to let me know
they exist,
and i need
better
doctors to
tell me
i’m sick.
something,
something
about hope.

July 16, 2016

turn at whole foods muse

a saturday morning commute,
when i see high performance
dick measurements
dancing across deep potholes
in our weekend downtown,
i realize that maybe my feet
say more on a quick walk
in broken-open slip-ons
than my hands do on virgin leather,
and that’s was my judgement,
and at a cracked bus stop
some authentic wait lonesome
for jesus christ and good luck
surrounded by windows mirrored,
exhaustion and new day;
who wears the pants and such anyway?
i think all this betwixt coffee sips
driving along the way,
i take it in over “ordinary world”
and think of Scorsese death
while our wet ball spins
(do i need a car wash to appeal?)
and his Porsche turns before me;
the shine blinds, maybe size small.

July 3, 2016

Commuter Theatre

Sitting, eyeing, on the green line east
at pull of rubber band force
from automatic closed doors,
this way going fast to St. Paul,
reading pulp & fodder & reviews–
rain taxi on such a fine day, muse,
truth as the second coming, we assume,
alone as this newborn child is,
before our welcome birthing days…
And these bells only go buzz
their purposeful bing accord,
and the hipsters trend all over
Twitter and Facebook storyboards,
and I read “Dessa”: as one name,
I am not too big to make real art,
hard looks and fresh lemon bitter.
I am here between twin cities
futzing with the magazine innards
tonguing sore mouth blisters
trying to find a schedule to go on mr…
Stories of contrast black and white
waiting on bleak blue dinged seats
and this line rolls along green,
in pale hot bright summer sun seen,
malaise in my stomach sits–pits,
Snelling, Hamlin, and Lexington,
sour as such sordid sentiment,
I bike to some new on old hopes
to pay cash for a tin roof owned,
I hope it’s not too far, still sitting,
still watching, waiting, thinking:
Do people really think they are fooling
anyone waiting at the scanner’s
edge to run up on the station
without paying the correct fare?
O, bad actors must have just forgot,
the commuter theatre is free today.

June 27, 2016

make a call

the piecemeal
and the sweet
tongue
going perennial,
the gypsum
and the clover,
only had without
strove to
rekindle brethren
likeness,
coming so close
to what we
had to offer,
coming so close
to what we
called home.

June 18, 2016

no. 7 at 14/61 and the future

Between violet sepia bluffs
Cars played lines
A haze grew thick—hot
Orange cones dictated
The fast up and down
Of empty traffic

Cemeteries waved at Dresbach
Sandy islands slipped away
A great dam held its ground
Where days felt longer
And time gave MN goodbyes

Polaris and the waxen moon
Lush grass and free truth
Spread out Abnet field
Voided streets, no yield
Completely consumed

Cigarette smoke rolled
In icy air conditioning
Talks, barstools pushed away
Rum doubles and a door
Familiar face accord

Hands gripped the wheel
Assail easy premonition
A new floor coming in
And I am sure there was
god and love and open skies

All around me the speed limit
All around me cut out hills old

June 17, 2016

witness

Seeing your actions
far surpasses
any good intentions
crossed out
that your pursed
moving lips
could ever exclaim.

June 5, 2016

the paper boy is dead

On a hunch I sauntered slowly
into fresh borne south of
this driftless region driveway
thinking of a town so small
and so brilliant with newness
that dove’s coos came warmer,
more complex and calming
in cascaded light,
sparrows tangoed along eaves,
nests bulged with twigs above a door—
turning back, I’d see every bump
on simple alien surface streets,
no moving cars, no people, just…
the newspaper there, on time.
7 years as never seen before,
mixed emotions at the thought:
could the paper boy have forgot,
to the end of the cement I went,
where straight lines and nature’s debris,
where I saluted hand over
brow to shield from a blindingness,
so practiced and so readied
the veteran orb could retire happy,
here street signs and crab trees sighed,
and we’d all freeze to death just
below shouldered green hills advancing
with leathered leaves flapping
sans our wrapped Sunday Tribune,
or the will to go anywhere else.