Posts tagged ‘thoughts’

August 16, 2016

what i know.

what i know
about life
is that people
only want
change if
they create it
themselves;
likewise
with poetry,
people only want
words, art, ideas,
-poetry
if they create
it themselves.
i would
cite the editors,
the talking heads,
the publications,
the reviewers,
and their
best of friends
in foggy dawn
on a
hot summer’s day,
i would
but i didn’t
create them.
and that is why they
read
only the best.
ssshhhhhhhhhh…

August 14, 2016

middle finger

“Who ain’t a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about—however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way— either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other’s shoulder-blades, and be content.”

― Herman Melville, Moby-Dick

there are some times
i want to use
my middle
finger so bad.

i see it coming,
some idiot,
annoyance, stooge–
realize
that everyone
is watching, waiting,

tighten up,
and hesitate
my finger into
a balled fist,

put it away
for better judgement
and self-
sustainability,

and think
this is what people
must feel like
when treated unfair,

i can’t do
what i want…

certainly,
only because i have
been told i never
feel like that,
or have felt it ever,
not possible.

tho, every-
thing is.

still, my middle
finger is upset,
turned in,
depleted of its work,
unwelcome
and put down,

in our new
america, spectacle-laced
obsession, critique
readied, voluntarily,
unwarranted
society.

(surely assume:
white, well,
and un-wanting;
but caste that observation
not unto others
of course.)

tho, putting
my finger away perhaps
means tacitly to: fuck off,
tho, we feel
that this gesture
is always unacceptable,
yet i think.

(holds up middle finger while smiling)

April 5, 2016

We Are (some time)

We are. In this between warm bellies
and harsh alarms, a shower cat

and parked cars, possible rain and clear stars.
We are. But we had to leave it to find the latter.

We are. Each morning jazz and traffic alerts,
running until our back hurts. We are.

There were charged phones and computer
screens, lights showing the props between.

We are. Just another day in all of its many ways.
We are. I wonder if they could even notice?

We are. The wind through trees blowing.
We are. See the time steadfastly going.

We are.
We are.

February 18, 2016

Ms.

a true
genius
puts
dead
bananas
in
the
fridge
and
doesn’t
make a
fuss
to tell
the
entire
world.

no words
of
the
bard
necessary,
no
care
at
the
ready
local
opinion.

she
does
so well
as
she is,
she
does
so
well
as she
does
at
this.

January 27, 2016

Driving to Work

in the mornings
before i drove
to work
i used to
listen to the
traffic report
on the radio
and laugh.

i had this idea
that it didn’t
effect me,
that i was
so far above
this kind
of busy commute.

now it does.
in my capsule
i sit, watching
attentive, close,
as i never
wanted to.

i drive with
conviction, i go
at each turn.
i know what it
is like to worry,
to be considered
a shark.

biking was never
this way, it was
i who needed
to watch over
my shoulder;
now i must see
and assess
everything.

i must do the
impossible,
i must be constant,
aware, and
one hundred
percent,
always.

a bus would
be nice,
biking in winter
now isn’t
realistic,
the truck is
what i have
to go to,
this luxury.

the radio tells
it straight,
“side roads
are slow and go…”
i used to laugh,
now i sweat;
i used to cry,
now i mumble.

the pleasure of driving,
and they don’t
even attempt at
calling
the stress.

the pleasure
is all of
mine.

January 25, 2016

tragic animals (true art)

the imperfections
make the
human being,

by nature we
are flawed;

so, love me
for all
my stupidity
and challenges,

as we are
animals of
a similar kind.

***

the 35W bridge
fell on a
swift August day
during
rush hour traffic,

in its
modern marvel,
in a humid haze.

the stone arch
bridge stands
square beige still,

just so, guiding
past and present
to the
city center scene.

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

January 14, 2016

You Didn’t Win Either? (unluckysucker)

Everyone in Minnesota
did not win the Powerball
jackpot last night…

So—Today we can all bask in
the cold-light glory
that no one near us
is better off than the rest of us__probably.

We can now all
relish in this thought,
and be our special way of nice
over such a cutting idea.

As it were, broke, sad me, holding
a job with frozen fingers—
not throwing Benjamins on
a naked golden yacht (no fun & sun).

As it were, us crying together
at the blackening void of
our faithful fantasies vanished,
as summer beach scenes
and graduates of Coffman Union
around long winter breaks.

Cry sad local gambler, cry hard with me.
You didn’t win either, ha!

January 11, 2016

9 below

9 below
and nothing
really
matters.

A dusting
of snow,
but what’s
that?

The forecast
doesn’t
mention the
wind’s biting,

the aching
bones,

or heavy layers
of clothes:

hat, gloves,
scarves,
long underwear,
and coat.

We Minnesotans,
we know.

9 below
is what
they call it,

but it’s something
else, something
more imposing;

it’s cold life,
like that,

nothing more than negative.

And I prefer zero,
calm and neutral.

And I prefer anything
but minus digits.

January 9, 2016

Realism in 4 Sentences

the 1st sentence:
you make it
what it truly is.
and then two:
nothing else
in this big-small
city matters,
not even the
bold peripheral
blatherings: blah,
blah, blah, blah…
or (3): the incessant
boring doldrums
of certain choice
modern artistry.
last (4) sentence:
when will your
actions reflect
this sentiment?