Posts tagged ‘twin cities’

January 26, 2018

waiting for the green line train at west bank station in the snow and cold and heat around 4:36 p.m.

the smell of a late afternoon lunch
enough, enough for snow to melt
imagining debt without a time clock
or vise versa–in some time only fixated…
dusting between keys on a keyboard, jet black
creating something like this, and that, unnoticed unawares
moby-dick for meaning of meaningful meaning
they tell me i have books to pick up
some stand on the shelves like straight soldiers
some crack like and egg in my hand at breakfast
they tell me have a good weekend & we just got over the flu
google will better my photo of West Bank, only soon
words won’t come so easy after that tune
some things just look better in digital format
i will wait for the train, again, here
amongst people who wait for the train, again, here
praising not having to wait for her, once were
wondering what’s in that guys hand, that guys bag
no one puts things on the floor anymore
picking up my little man
waiting for another to arrive–O’ plans: we had
and he asked me what i was eating as if it were bad
i told him what and who made it, of course
man my stomach was starting to feel good just then
thought this before the train came.

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January 13, 2018

Fact: in Minnesota, the bus is always late in the cold, and later the colder it is…

i was telling the ladies at daycare
about how the bus
always comes 20 minutes late
when it is cold out.
like now, it comes half-an-hour later, guaranteed;
when it perfect out the bus comes on time…
the colder it is out
the later the bus arrives.
and this isn’t a joke this is real, scientific method real, tested.
this is an actual fact.
they asked so i told them, i love our talks.
he made it, great, goodbye.
but the truth is
one would figure these waits would get better
now that the Superbowl is coming to town.
but i guess not. not for the peasants.
us in servitude, making it to work and back
not having the magic platinum tickets, not insiders.
have to wait on ice packed glaciers between snow drifts.
global cooling is giving me frostbite and making me bitter.
across from the Goodwill at Fairview, near
some abandoned shopping cart excursion,
son in stroller, meth-addict twitching, calling
the Google schedule bullshit, smoking a cig.
don’t these things come every 20 minutes or so…,
give me a break–i mean seriously,
i don’t need this in my life,
no not when it’s negative 20.
then it floats up when you are moments from death, asking god.
this is, even while being secular and skeptical.
i think of summitting Everest and wait longer.
you know i probably could with this training.
though the oxygen tanks and Sherpa, i need them now.

December 23, 2017

20 degrees outside twin cities

what we have here in real life.
it’s 20 degrees outside twin cities.
that could be a hotel.
this brickpath could be a house.
the sky is a sheen marble.
tell me what you think, what else?
it’s 20 degrees outside twin cities.
could take my chopper gloves off.
could lose this woolly hat.
because my head in the clouds
and there is no one around, that.
it’s perfect outside, twin cities.
there’s no reason to hide.
nothing but numbers and times
nothing but humans and climes
nothing but nothing, all right.
yet some would complain.
yet still some wouldn’t mind.
what we have here in real life.
what we have here outside.
i don’t think i mind.

November 1, 2017

… as the snow flies

i am good right here…
entranced by November snows
in gray hues, just outside,
changing my mind’s moments
like daylight savings.
each flake fat,
each ascent confused,
to wetted ground’s pools below.
good right here, right now–I. I…
waiting, watching through a film of plastic
and time and clime and ah… OK.
spastic motions, prison of chairs.
legs get stiff, what are feet for, again?
biding my time patient, that snow out there.
it’s coming down liberated and seasoned.
Reflecting somewhat jealous.
at some point i have to leave.

October 18, 2017

you go for it too, the end

our supposed sapience
this rabbit hole venture
grandeur, alluredly postured,
vested interest paying,
found wholly bound,
tied tight in pragmatic gestures,
molded, wired twill, just there. and not.
and the poses for those trite tripe elations
on adolescent medias ubiquitous,
for social aspirations, affirmation,
fleeting, vanishing in yesterday’s yesterday.
once a thought gone for
a thousand other good thoughts gone,
nothing to where i stand nowly.
these buildings were here, they saw too.
that bridge was here on Washington Ave.
this coffee hot was not.
Nor your laugh sharp, piercing…
your ideas are great, just imagine.
your politics are not his or hers or the self-appointed’s.
something like that.
something like this.
like the sheer wind cutting under blue hue.
stained words on paper.
hard text on a page.
a fortnight’s digested and expelled intentions.
will fill a box nicely one day.
morgues aren’t like in the television shows.
you will see it soon too.
then you won’t, verily.
and i just thought i would
tell you about it in this type.
because some day i can’t.

August 27, 2017

The Beer Dabbler

under gray rain sprayed heavens
troves walked in boots and leather at the Dabbler
while leaving skinny smokers on the train
with their mountain bikes and their obsessive plans
forward to old new music and colorful tents and
pretzel necklaces and cardboard cut-outs
of Bill Murray and metal fences and Rhymesayers,
where lights up high on CHS Field, 3rd base.
they were setting the stage for warm flannel
thick beards, flowing flags, slick stickers, soft coasters,
and hips swaying and shouts and cheers, beers!
and laughs–the whole crowd, at broken glass cacophony.
we took it in in gulps and sups and breaths.
saw alcohol abused rounding the bases,
as a doppelganger and DIPA waiting in the wings,
Greenway from North Dakota, Rhombus Brewery.
and artisan everything beer from whiskey casks,
told them it must be the water that makes it good.
pine wood smelled of fresh hops
and more lights, don’t water my glass sternly;
im a postmodernist who enjoy labels: i like to
reflect my makeup like rings in a tree
keep going onto one another, like language,
all the way to the bathrooms and fireworks,
attendees hiding the buns at the center of
the table in VIP–VIP doesnt get dessert.
some sort of Seinfeld joke played out here.
the beer was dessert, free t-shirt, free glass, etc.
people laughing, wedding rings, pictures
text messages, cars coming head-on
from Union Depot. more selfies. a poet ponders
walks and writes, drinks listens to a man
driving Uber perhaps tell of everyone else
using excuses, good words, especially for what
we look like–he said, in their image: gods. i watched the traffic.
i get it, like i didnt try to get here very hard…
wet rain shell, spaghetti, wife and son.
Kelly’s is like a bar in my hometown.
more of a sore throat, thank god i dont smoke.
such and such, have to go back for baseball.
such and such, good free beer, tastes like i forgot…

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 5, 2017

Pioneer Press

I love the local paper
In the morning
No matter the grade of slant
Headlines scream alarmistly
Pictures evoke my tender emotions
Even the coupons look good
Even the petro smells nice
But the letters to the editor:
Thats the realest news youll get
Surprise me insides
100 degrees today ok
Now i turn the page
Now i deplastic your outer
Now i spread you on the bed
Take it in, each page–o yes
Will be different tomorrow
I guess i love the change
Always the local paper

June 21, 2017

my schedule.

Sometimes they tell me to not take the train
because of scheduled preventative maintenance.  
So there is a bus, the number 3.  That is OK.  I can deal.  
I’ll have to walk a bit on Lexington.  Anyway, sometimes I read
while on the usual train in the morning,
while sitting next to naked monks speaking in tongues
while fresh girls get out of their seats
and move to the door for fear he might find them evil
or something like snakes to crush.
White spittle crazy in the corner of his lips.  
Then I go to the back of the train too–to get away
and watch reflections on plastic or the sky above
or building’s tops and tree lines.  
Sometimes.  Sometimes we make loud abrupt stops.  
Sometimes I get nauseated and ride the train backwards
on accident or lack of space.  
My mom tells me she might get seasick.  
The green line is great if you like gentrification
that causes rent that makes rental refrigerators empty
and arguments to flare up in summer heat with no AC
like mosquitoes on naked arms near still lakes.  
I don’t care though.  But then I do.
I love the way I get to where I am going.  
Now on the number 3 it will take a bit longer…
It takes me 20 minutes and a few pages to turn.
From there I will have to walk longer in the heat.  
I get some knowledge from my book.
I carry it under my arm and bang my wallet with it–check.
It’s all in my hand, information.
It’s mostly tax free and friendly
and I don’t have to make friends.  
But sometimes it gets canceled
and I realize that it means more to me than most things
because it is so easy (and when it’s not there…)
and it is so convenient
and everyone talks about it
and tells you how great it is
and wishes they could live in a big city
because all these things are close
and nice and expensive and very cool.
But tomorrow I can’t take the train to my regular station.
Probably get a ride and talk about my schedule.

June 12, 2017

basement vinyl reflection

there is no need to worry
my passwords are foreign languages
the spider webs cocoon me and beams
old light and new light dance just there
a records spins and pictures stand
miserable hours ago though
there is no need to worry exactly
florescence from below, flowers grow
be bold, be bold, be own, old soul.
be alone, confluence with those.
just here skin and bones, skin and bones–all those
acting like they know but they dont
acting, just do it for the show, tho–
there is no need to worry
there is no need to hurry
and then i think about it some more
begin to sweat, begin to whittle
my fragile courage into tooth picks
sitting in a creaky chair and staring
on the floor at my feet in the dust
and the record spins and goes
more of me gone trying to find it too