Posts tagged ‘thoughts’

October 11, 2017

time machine me back to then so i can not offend and better off myself

how many candle lights do illuminate?
to the beard on my red face,
to the dark beer in my dry hand,
to the classical music on Google Home in my stung ears.
how many? we don’t hug anymore…
thoughts of non-gendered scouts and Forensic Files on tv…
that pod over there listens when i talk:
“OK GOOGLE, tell me a story i haven’t heard before.”
treat me the opposite of how you treat my poetry.
i ponder existence and sharp wits.
calling on the military personnel
to quell my disquiet violence,
the mannequins were disarming in the wax exhibit.
sell the quietude; there are many words and some pennies.
tell them you no likey,
speak in baby to me so i know we are truly friends.
here, sarcasm is part of the local dialect.
a week old and this beer is very smart,
and the beer is German like my name.
months old and my beard is a great disguise, hardly recognize…
but i am royalty from some German story,
some town named Worms near Frankfurt,
dragons lay slain at my feet a millennia ago or so.
my sword gleamed in this light–then, or something like that.
and no volunteerism today, 6 pm they abandoned me.
just coming home to meatballs and soup and stares
and eating and walking and talking awares, about
killing our debt together, i’ll cover the roof
with sniper prowess and fox logic.
wait for its head to pop out, pew, pew, pew…
the interest is what kills you in the end;
do you want to pay interest on cereal or coffee or whatever?
just give me some time now, thoughts.
i am doing what i should have done in the past.

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October 7, 2017

saturday morning with my grandpa (how i became me)

saturday mornings could smell
like burnt eggs
and old cigars stamped out years ago,
bacon grease splatting, hiss,
dogs wet fur from the rain coming down,
a damp dusty basement clouded,
unbrushed teeth speaking true words
to loved ones about what will be done
what we might get to,
grandma and grandpa and dad and cats in La Crescent
sitting in a wallpapered kitchen, rented out now,
pantry full, cooking bean soup on the stove,
waiting for NASCAR on sunday, those tomorrows,
and god, or the lord or heavens knows, who cares?
got to get better at it, all of it,
that smell reminds me of nothing now
and the dead and chopping wood in the forest,
and how he would show up with donuts
and his dog, in leather boots, early,
before most “hard workers” today even think about
getting up because he drove semi trucks
to where i live now, just south of us,
until in his mid-seventies,
when he first met me, 70 times my age,
and i can still smell that stuff upstairs.

September 21, 2017

reflections of you

i figure a mirror,
start treating others
how you are treated
and if they get mad
so what? …
open the windows on morning light,
we find there is none,
and stalkers walking by,
close them fastly sharp,
i see the sidewalks empty
these chipped frames have no subjects,
eat my pancakes in scarfs.
tell ears that i am political
with taking care of our child,
tell her watch and see.
actions sound better than words to me,
but the words that form them… i don’t know.
i figure a mirror, watch me be you.
watch me learn from you.
did you write this lesson, or is it improvised?
do you like how it feels?
do you like how I deal the cards?
no matter, like the mirror
i just stand and reflect, inverted, obscured,
catch you as you go by when
you turn on the lights to glow
and even when you don’t.

September 9, 2017

logically you are not even if you say you are on account of your actions and that language’s histories

i wonder if when I,
poets, activists, or protesters
disparage Western concepts, culture, constructs,
in their precious american English
they realize that they are
wading in the deep waters of
conflicted ideology.
(i am not defending or attacking it, just a thought.)
i wonder if they realize how careless they potentially look.
(tho it could be misread or misinterpreted, easily.)
the language of the Oppressor
suites well for an offensive, good thought… Lorde’s

master’s house with master’s tools (as explained):
same with antifa violence–end’s means,
or narrow-mindedness politics, not for me.
some things are only those things in name.
i want actual world peace.
i literally want equality.
i have begged for equal parental leave rights for fathers.
(and sometimes i just want coffee or beer.)
i can’t care though in a world of apathy towards definitions;
maybe you can see what i look like through texts.
there must be a proper algorithm for that.
i write in it,
i teach in it,
i think inside my head in it,
how do you do in it?
language is that prevalent, do you think in second languages?
probably told something
about how i am in it by someone i don’t “know” in it.
but i must re-reflect in it, hypocritically.
do i wear cotton clothing?
most likely my parents did, and their grandparents did…
that crop we should truly burn for its despicable history.
who is this building i live in named after?

Occam’s razor a bit more and start removing those bricks too.
every pattern is another pattern resembled: what did it mean, again, then?
that lovely beach you go to, named for?
he must have friendly-fired at some point, making it somewhat ok.
did the Viking‘s not sack Dublin perhaps
raping and killing and plundering that Emerald Isle?
something about my favorite football team that doesn’t win…
the homeless may sleep for free in that structure’s shadow, cold tho.
i can’t recall because i wasn’t there
but these poets, activists, and protesters,
perhaps, they are backwards really–me too,
with language rooted in vile pasts they (and i) despise,
so fluid its will can change fast daily
just to make some poignant moral point work out for a new sign;
like media statisticians, i can make numbers speak too.
get them to sing like a well-oiled machine at church.
a few words in print, alas, but my Narrative… shit.
i can speak another language.
i have visited new and different lands.
i will never stop reading or changing my mind on anything and everything.
perhaps, if you are a globalist who has
never left the States and who only speaks
one language, mother tongue, how good are your big ideas?
practicing and preaching are two different things.
no big deal though, just saying, reflecting.
so how would you like to say what you think now?

September 3, 2017

you cannot know ever

do go ahead, appeal to me:
be open, be thoughtful , be free.
be like the antilablists be:
no “know”, no fact, no meaning.

August 26, 2017

AI will figure it out for us! Yay!

i am ready for the killer robots now,
i want them to come faster, posthaste.
because robots don’t do politics,
they just act and that’s it.

there is no discerning nothing to them, affirmative.
in times like this, i think antiindividualthoughters
would be the ones to really worry;
not me tho, the ones with big group ideas.

b/c ai doesn’t care about feels-sentiment,
only what you are, what and where, now.
not what you want to be or what you believe.
ai doesn’t fret about your god(s), her rules,

unless you program them to and such.
preference and seems take a backseat.
like children they are honest.
like surgeons they are exact.

like weapons we should be concerned.
like counterprotesters they come in “peace”.
i think that scares people tho;
stop violence on “both sides” tell the robot,

probably a robot won’t care for the names
for the intentions, for the allegiances, or the Soros monies–
sees something: pew pew pew, kaboom, stillness… robots
i am sort of worried about ai, and not,

but then again not really so much
i am only human-kind, kind of flawed, will go when to ash.
i can only assume what will be our “future”,
i can only just breath and see and be and me.

August 13, 2017

what my wife thinks about what you think about what i write and a blurb about the whaling industry from In the Heart of the Sea

on a candlelit porch my wife implored, inspired and went on
why do you care about what they think?
why do you care about what they think of what you write?
it has nothing to do with them, what you think or compose…
looking for spermaceti candles and fate meaning, i.

reflecting, Nantucket sent those to gather Port Royal Toms to eat
without a thought but hunger; left virgin islands storied infernos,
thought about that and words and writing and language
on a porch serene treasure, old books, good love…
what do you think? wait, nevermind.

bubbling up, i recall her burnt hand expressing white temperatures
on clear glass, how it changes so fast and silence and police scanner siren;
dropping my whisky for a similar purpose; icing thumb: and scroll go.
watching the blue grass grow, not much to see here,
coo-coo clocks and barometers and books of ships and screens
that do keep us safe from what’s out there far away, calling a din.

July 30, 2017

cheap breakfast (over a hot stove in quiet peace frogtown usa, why for fruit and eggs and butter and spice and time and memory)

my morning of foreign language speak spoke
wrapped with a stale beer-feel haze
and cut fruit–tomato, bad reviews, and 2 fried eggs
and contrived paddlewheels
at St Paul later; i am meeting to mend broken pinion gears
for inconsequential yard work
and forget the past
which does not affect us,
so remember not to forget.
with fork turned knife, i cut the
fragile membrane and watched it ooze and
sluice yellow the barebones plate: perfect presentation,
where is Gordon Ramsey when you need him? fuck.
if only for toast–
but they say processed carbs are so bad
with guesswork lexicons,
and so is not just agreeing with…
but dont talk those politics out loud in public,
they could hurt your morning stomach,
could hurt your local pride,
could hurt you like if you were that red fruit right there
unresponsive, go letting out,
about to be devoured by something much bigger
than you could ever truly imagine
and only for cheap breakfast
next to lowly coffee more precious.

July 23, 2017

if monsters could leave the city

oh tru morning between aging cof
fee and covfefe and chuck dick,
one resignation away from a full deck,
and the meeting the Washington press
people who are good actors–
i mean really fucking good actors,
for saying things like fair and
balanced like a fat thumb on
the honest scale but it doesnt matter.
not like the gamma rays cutting,
not like a baby bouncing new teeth
through the clouds haloing above
the old trees and cut grass: lawn boy:
a broken pinion and the late sunday paper.
more gas on the ground than in it,
more save the world than wtf? locally
heard a domestic disturbance yesterday,
saw someone stealing a mainstreet car.
i suppose if i dont shave
the people who i teach in China wont care
probably wont notice beyond my American smile…
coffee again, father john misty again;
i like the art on the vinyl.
car parked in our odd garage.
monday take out our hot garbage.
so many movements to make,
only got to make movements.
i want to take the time to watch the snake
eat itself slowly as they say bye bye Betsy–
to hear her say she wont have it,
and i think what does
she think of party-made monster,
probably should get through Frankenstein,
probably should hideout somewhere.
or like a scapegoat leave the country.
if monsters could leave the city.

July 9, 2017

how to talk poetry at lake como and there is free stuff on the corner that is treasure and local poets on international ideas and non-profits in the sun on a saturday reflection

we walked Como lake in the sun
at 3, 4, and 5 pm as others ran the circle proper.
i found a wife and a child very happy,
found ice cream and Miller Lite and monarchs floating.
descried a man and a woman stealing caterpillars
from milkweeds near black walnut trees,
recalled that caterpillars arent stupid–get free.
take the insect out of its habitat for safety
lock it up and observe it–for the better, really?
doesn’t make sense to us thinkers.
a couple of canoes reflected off the water
shimmering like a solar eclipses bright, tinfoil cut up.
found blisters on my moccasined feet
found a green Kelty and Boy Scouts of America.
topics of 1995: how to be a U.S. Citizen.
not much has changed much really…
thoughts of running into Tish Jones with another “writer”
a few weeks back, spoke of connected poetry.
i dont think she remembers my name from the
poetry workshop we had together at University.
told me she is international non-profit now
i didnt say what i do… she met teddy and jess.
red bugs and phosphorescent bugs and stabby thorns
and rocks and dog shit and strollers and runners, again.
thoughts of a broken garbage disposal at home
and the fire alarm that fell from the ceiling sky.
cellphone photos in the sun and an empty beer can in hand,
the tallest thickest cotton wood in the city, in this park.
a dockside where people fish in weeded muck
and walk around naked and hot and confused and hungry.
said focusing on everything is focusing on nothing.
trash cans and stone walls and people coming.
the time is late and our child cries for milk.
a parking lot where inordinate occupants move.
pine trees and green grass past Gabe’s patio.
the owner’s car is always parked in front, shining.
found two Colemans in a trash heap of a vacant house
on our tiny and nice street in a good area with good transit.
the rent is ok, the property management is aloof;
this is some american-dream-privilege-fantasy void.
one hundred percent labeled by those who “know”.
i compare indentured servitude and renting property for a moment.
then again, wonder if the neighbors are trying to sell…
it’s a good time to try to make a buck from nothing,
look at this poetry and how it goes and ideas,
especially in this market where easy sells fast
with the right persuasion and movement behind it.
only a walk in the park on a beautiful day.
i promised to be positive from now on
and still i invite the challenge of it all.