Posts tagged ‘University’

July 29, 2016

advice for students from a post-graduate (survey answer)

Take all chances.
Study abroad.
Do things that others tell you not to do.
Do what you think is right.
Try everything.
Prepare yourself for a career you enjoy from experience.
Labels and titles do not matter.
Always network.
Always be present and visible.
Be different.
Believe in yourself, really.
Have a passion for what you are interested in.
Always, always be early.
And think positive.

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December 10, 2015

what i found in my food

Here was auburn hair that crawled like
Butter on a resting worn spatula –
From eggs – from earlier,
Running down its seemingly sublet slant

(Along the sink,
At countertop’s edge),

As the sweatshirt on her back
—at dusk, sun crimson red,
With an alabaster background
Lit up like a table lamp.

The silhouette across
The room too;
It moves
With you and the view.

Human matter and digesting food,
Set forth to
Consume, and assume.

What’s the difference? Though…
Part until moved.
Part in truth.
Stomach full,
Now whole—lest these fibers are removed.

September 8, 2015

astonish

back to
the same thing,

still surprised
by change.

April 24, 2015

Ironic Idiot

And you have an idea
where the mass of society is stuck within technology,

not in life,
not in environment,
not there—just socially aloof,

a society prop void,
a somnambulist day to day,
interconnected;

and that same person,
one akin,
counters with, “that idea is trite.”

as they reach for their smartphone
to update their profile
with a semi-interesting proclamation,
for all to measure.

They are lost as an ironic example,
trying to be anything but.

April 21, 2015

Education Vs. Nature

Sat in a classroom,
boxy and smug,
to

hear the whole world passionately explained,
exactly described,

as
it happens before
and without us
just
outside.

April 20, 2015

Commute Home through Como

On a home commute lately,
on Como Avenue’s length,
under streetlamp’s orange presence,
with blurred trucks and cars,

where sleeping neighborhoods
and empty industry wait;

I am moving between point A and point B,
I am alone in the dark nodding hello
to the stoplights changing,
empty storefront’s grey,
and mounting sidewalk debris.

Still some bars glow,
still long trains roll.

Coming to me are night smells
of dried hay—ironic spring,
careless weed smoke blown,
and fabric softener exhaust—all biking home.

Lost in darkened new elements
under low heavens, star speckled skies,

lately through Como,
on a commute between two cities,
resting local economy,
where sparkling broken glass
is scattered—reflect, a sight,
in clouded purple shade
of night, no sun, to my eyes, and going home.

April 12, 2015

Experience the Movement: during AWP 2015

In a tight vanilla pale room
with a tangerine sunset view,
where high association
shared big words
and accomplishments tacitly,
wink to a nod,
rubbing elbows,
touching pinked-white hands—shaking,
close, related, akin,
with more than five dollar’s worth of language present, presented,
of which few perhaps did understand,
it didn’t matter though,
behind modern dark faux wooden frames, Lennon round,
piercing eyes darted—knowing names, big thanks,
as bodies in ironed button up shirts,
suit jackets dusted,
leather shoes shined,
and neutral colored slacks creased,
hair done stiff, fine—slicked back shine,
reading aloud
lines and verses and words;
poems unfamiliar,
as those within oohed and aahed,
at each vocal cord’s articulation,
as attendees and audience members
smiled, drank, laughed, explained, translated, and clapped.
A brave man said with confidence to the glaring crowd: this was the movement,
we were it.
I guess maybe I couldn’t relate;
I felt more like a dried stalk of corn in a Midwestern summertime field,
some monocultures are unescapable.

April 8, 2015

Coffee Sippin’ Reflections while Reading

There was an attractive space recently filled,
I read,
which became an empty void.

That empty void,
I read,
became a great opportunity.

That great opportunity,
I read,
became a fleeting moment.

That fleeting moment of great opportunity of an empty void,
I read,
was then filled whole.

In the process of planning,
I read,
you missed the entire occurrence.

O now how the coffee tastes
so bitter at the bottom,
I read.

April 3, 2015

To The Library, A Day of Doors

Here with a dashboard view,
sleepy eyes take
the quiet city coming alive,

we are few between many doors,

Falcon Heights and going,
street to street,
community to community,

into the morning routine forgotten
on this early route.

Sitting shotgun
under damp skies heavy,
and fleeting streetlamps,
there waiting is the shielded sun,

we go;

creamed coffee in the center console sea
splashes and waves,
ebbs and flows,
high tide to low,

becoming more clouded,

at each abrupt lurch of fresh tire to ground,
at each crude pothole found.

Out with a love kiss
and a copasetic slammed rusty door,

moving towards
a red-brick building amongst other zombies,
dogs, and cats—I hold the door.

Administration signs we pass: “authorized personnel only”,
keys with their jiggling change sound of agency,
intimately within, feeling special again…

Through vacant hallways which exist resembling tubes
and tunnels and fish tanks—minus exotic fish,
with subzero refrigeration units which are warning: no food (!),
and photos of past passers-thru hugging plaques.

Press a sticky button for the elevator—engage the motion,
ding ding ding, ah…
lonely polished doors open,
step in, and close, to hit the number four…

Wait…
Wait…
Wait…

I should have taken the stairs today…
I think, exercise…

We stop,
and out to a wooden door and a sparkling tile floor,
unclipping keys to enter this cryptic lounge,
no one near, just me here.

Turn in, let the day begin,
and come get your books.

April 1, 2015

Poetry Workshop, Senior Seminar

He sat as we tore him to pieces,
limb by limb; every sentence sound, lost thought, and errant period
became our subject, our purpose to change.

Critical words and suggested alterations sliced deep,
a pain was scribed on his taut winced mien, perspired.

I said nothing more, no more from me.

This was where their sticks and stones became surgical instruments, their say on his say, tools which cut to, with their subjective opines on art, on personality, on poetry.

I sat and said nothing,
until words came, “…any last suggestions?”

Then I spoke: I think your piece is good.