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.
there are no carte blanche,
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.
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.
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.
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.