Posts tagged ‘twin cities’

February 18, 2017

this morning here is what i did…

on Saturdays i can usually
drink a whole pot of coffee, not just half
so it sits until the next day and maybe
goes into a growler in the fridge.

my stepfather says it’s a waste to make less
than a full pot of coffee, so today i feel
accomplished and un-wasteful. on the way
to write this i played with the stinky cat

with a painful foot that possesses an ingrown
toenail on the big toe and has athletes
foot unrestricted. i turned on the kitchen
light and opened the shades and perused

the backlot as i filled the pot with tap water.
my wife changed a dirty diaper and prepared
for work. i cleared my mind for getting my
ID updated and a new credit card;

i would have to change accounts. i poured what
was left of the old coffee from yesterday
into a tall glass, added creamer and drank.
thought about how i won’t buy beer this weekend

and how our podcast went so well. it’s things like these
that matter, keep the full pot full, positive.
my stepdad was right, and then she walked in
to ask what i was doing in here, listening

to funky soul on Google Home and writing.
waiting for the full pot of coffee to be done.

February 14, 2017

this poets plight

there are 10,000,000
of the same exact
trying
to do
what you want
to do… the same exact.
so, how do
you prove
what you have to
prove, the you
and what you do?
write about
social justice,
write about your
city, write
about oppression,
write about love,
or if you don’t feel it
fantasize about it;
society gives you truth.
(where is the lens?)
for me,
it’s different:
minimum parental leave,
as a dad,
diapers and breast milk,
little to no money,
full-time work with college debt,
no covered movement,
cis pale male,
no publisher,
i tell people what i think–
no groups,
no promotion to climb a ladder,
just words.
and i make myself happy.
yet still for a poet
like me
my plight isn’t
trendy…
there are bigger memes.
more advertisement to be had.
so forget it.
now, it doesn’t matter.

February 11, 2017

skill

these poets have got skill
they ought to make gods
out of straw men
with fists up to disrupt
in groups large enough
not to miss
but for a singular idea;
for the entirety
individuality has left the building
like they say Elvis once did
and
they prefer and
persuade yours’ gone too, verily–
auf wiedersehen, jetzt;
tho irony poses a problem
when
you think about that purpose
without thinking about that principle,
a group think showing
others to not think
for themselves: so don’t; ironically,
for some everything
can be a problem, depending on the message,
similarly with the critic
at a convention of their beat–they just have to;
still there is nothing new under the sun.
but as arms of automated
recycling trucks
reaching out with care
at soon to be new old shit
these poets
could fall like building 7
16 years ago September, to grey dust
by one true statement,
fall like a beggar’s budget
at two buck chuck,
and then break
their wrists patting their own backs
as if they made
that poignant prose
so much their own,
accordingly their every breathe
is arrogance.
let’s call it “skill” anyway.

February 4, 2017

some bright orbs are hated for their difference

i feel like a grapefruit in
an orange grove sometimes–
like shave, shower, shit;
alarm bells, scrolling the internet;
deodorant, brush, smile,
sweating thru, flannel, true;
Moby-Dick, Hitchens, and
Bukowski, metal ends
to my leather toes;
unknown and close, you would never know.
40 and holding, always weekly,
bitch and complain and shamed
but still nothing for change…
and when they peel my flesh to test
the citrus juice comes fresh,
more blood orange than a crate of grapes,
more real than fake.
and they talk about Onalaska
and La Crosse and La Crescent
like they are all me, and not.
something above it, but
a grapefruit in an orange grove,
thinking differently alot.
or i think i forgot,
but that’s no big deal anyway,
see what i look like, have a taste.

January 15, 2017

cord-cutters of the world, unite and take over

cutting the cord
i found that
Comcast is a triste tryst,

unknowingly before
but CenturyLink
changed this.

December 8, 2016

bundle up

ere the cold wind
hardened person debacle,
post-repast,
i become less like
those who represent me
and more like myself,
still running from its presence.
we are found, as errant snow
in misplaced cracks
along the street–
never should have been there.
swirling excitedly
at the bus stop proper
under pink and sable skies,
this industry: dying trees, real waits,
away from it all,
lights out in the house,
purely darkened for late payments.
a book stands in my side pocket,
slick along the turns,
a clear door opens, “Hello, sir.”
and then the same door closes again
to shield me from it.
ere the cold wind, just as
it touches me whole.

September 20, 2016

Westgate

Dear person who wants to die at the Westgate train station, I’m sure the police officer doesn’t care if you like to hang your legs over the station by the tracks in the cool breeze near rush hour traffic, astride power lines and atmospheric pressure waves of interference. But you would be a hell of a something to clean up, so why don’t you give the fine transportation people of this lovely city a break and get back beyond the yellow line. I guess we are all trying to go somewhere, and not ruin an other’s day. No one is special, except maybe you.

September 16, 2016

pressing press

there are no carte blanche,
genuinely autonomous
scribes in this city.

everything for novel;
muse: money, fame, cohorts–
certain derivatives of old…

they want to be noticed
but not for such reasons,
for something like gods.

Zum Beispiel: nothing is fair,
i lost my one love,
no body understands me,
and something about trees.

September 13, 2016

birth of idea in the age of money (untouchables)

as i turn on the boob tube
to local frost warnings
and bright light
an inspiration is born.
something surely new.
something surely different.
as wafting aroma of morning coffee
kept cool in the fridge
then poured out neat in a cup.
low dew points: free!
some commercials sing.
sell me more, like their press.
why don’t you sell poetry?
blinking and bouncing colors.
loving the breeze
that wraps me through
the window as i sit nude
thinking on meetings
and projects and lifestyles
on some cat-torn up couch.
how we all get around.
how we all are targets.
just a touch of some Button on a remote.
at some remote location.
living room centered.
in the middle of everything,
and nowhere and somewhere,
and some inspiration is born
just like this,
and we can all relate.
but will we give it that way
as we ourselves get?
Commercialism. Capitalism. Nepotism.
those are still in the art you read.
will we acknowledge the acknowledgeable
which too makes us
and we find unique when it is not?
probably i don’t know.
probably go buy their works.
some tell of “privilege” i guess.
tell stories they don’t “know”.
tho are your friends publishers,
curators, or the media?
make em’ more realistic as if given.
if so, it’s all good.
if not, go fish. my inspiration grows.
tho i am pale, tired, and typical.
where is the kitchen sink?
i suppose they are right if they believe.
here is the father of some idea.
something already been said.
something apathetic, something me.

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…