what i know
is that people
they create it
people only want
words, art, ideas,
if they create
cite the editors,
the talking heads,
best of friends
in foggy dawn
hot summer’s day,
but i didn’t
and that is why they
only the best.
what i know
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.
a lost day
in the sun,
where we all
all the dogs, kids, babies wrapped, framed glasses, young and old, unpotted plants, jarred goods, dark corners–green, passing glances, new movie–new drama, new play: this life; capitalism, theatre, chefs on wheels, circus donuts, french cuisine croissants, organic, ham & cheese, natural, unconventional, cemented, photographed, painted, produced product soon to be purchased, some with cameras capture, stacked red brick, grey antiquated silos, expensive strollers, progressive shoes, obvious fashion–uptown, trending, voluptuous crimson flowers in jetblack stands wet under overcast and old industry, windowpane mirrors to their looking-glass self, vain vanity, standing, walking, waiting, exchanging money–dirty dinged, marketing to the reader–know what they like, showing, seeing, watching, staring, a part of it apart, breaking up lines, holding bags, spoken in broken inquiry and trailing text, cellphones attracting, selfies, a standard saturday morning, portrait untrained, looking for the next big thing next to the mighty mississippi, lovers holding hands: small parade, saying that is “interesting” and that is “funny” all in one rolled up ball, the life passing the torch in the center of mill city; here neighborhoods and neighbors converge just doing their weekend thing while others do their weekend thing this weekend at this bizarre bizaar of the farmer’s market crowd locally famous feigning outdoorsyness, notice my attention, epicenter aloof, just walking around individual circumstance, something for profit with a non-profit feel, feeling good but not doing good, and how others have planned their situations at the moment going by mine going by theirs going by. and gone.
rocks, and uncared
for plants, a
lamps of the
new day calling,
Stepping through tall blonde prairie grass
I leave one modern world quickly behind,
busy it buzzes & calls in sirens & hums,
lost out here on my own, biding my time.
“Oh, you’re that poet!”
a life saver;
and I caught
we put it
dirty tips &
and a few
Two parts around
One part a few
Walking home with
half a sandwich.
Long Friday night
St. Anthony main.
Time, our squashes
turned to ornaments
and our hunger
turned to black holes;
it was just enough
to clearly notice
vehicles taking rain,
Hennepin to home.
i wonder if the gnat in the shower mist
understands that money changes art.
the very idea of creating something for
pay transforms the something you create.
as if you aren’t going at it for self,
but now going at it for millions. this comedian
bug in our bathtub garden had the sense of
humor to remind me the importance of not
knowing, of not assuming, of not trying to be
the best in any situation, because there is only
self happiness inspired by the true muse.
and nothing more. and those words changed
for the pennies they paid, and some poets
would rather fill their bank accounts than self
actualize. and especially not talk about it.
notice it in similar words and formulas and
themes around these twin towns. i’ve seen
art on the green line, art on the transit, art
at the office desk top in non-profit form that
gave more to the world, so much more.
and i’ve begged and asked of some time to
merely experience, and some think they
have a chance at competition that proves
nothing more than some of us like just this.