Posts tagged ‘Vikings’

September 9, 2017

logically you are not even if you say you are on account of your actions and that language’s histories

i wonder if when I,
poets, activists, or protesters
disparage Western concepts, culture, constructs,
in their precious american English
they realize that they are
wading in the deep waters of
conflicted ideology.
(i am not defending or attacking it, just a thought.)
i wonder if they realize how careless they potentially look.
(tho it could be misread or misinterpreted, easily.)
the language of the Oppressor
suites well for an offensive, good thought… Lorde’s

master’s house with master’s tools (as explained):
same with antifa violence–end’s means,
or narrow-mindedness politics, not for me.
some things are only those things in name.
i want actual world peace.
i literally want equality.
i have begged for equal parental leave rights for fathers.
(and sometimes i just want coffee or beer.)
i can’t care though in a world of apathy towards definitions;
maybe you can see what i look like through texts.
there must be a proper algorithm for that.
i write in it,
i teach in it,
i think inside my head in it,
how do you do in it?
language is that prevalent, do you think in second languages?
probably told something
about how i am in it by someone i don’t “know” in it.
but i must re-reflect in it, hypocritically.
do i wear cotton clothing?
most likely my parents did, and their grandparents did…
that crop we should truly burn for its despicable history.
who is this building i live in named after?

Occam’s razor a bit more and start removing those bricks too.
every pattern is another pattern resembled: what did it mean, again, then?
that lovely beach you go to, named for?
he must have friendly-fired at some point, making it somewhat ok.
did the Viking‘s not sack Dublin perhaps
raping and killing and plundering that Emerald Isle?
something about my favorite football team that doesn’t win…
the homeless may sleep for free in that structure’s shadow, cold tho.
i can’t recall because i wasn’t there
but these poets, activists, and protesters,
perhaps, they are backwards really–me too,
with language rooted in vile pasts they (and i) despise,
so fluid its will can change fast daily
just to make some poignant moral point work out for a new sign;
like media statisticians, i can make numbers speak too.
get them to sing like a well-oiled machine at church.
a few words in print, alas, but my Narrative… shit.
i can speak another language.
i have visited new and different lands.
i will never stop reading or changing my mind on anything and everything.
perhaps, if you are a globalist who has
never left the States and who only speaks
one language, mother tongue, how good are your big ideas?
practicing and preaching are two different things.
no big deal though, just saying, reflecting.
so how would you like to say what you think now?

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November 21, 2016

who lost 42- 24 last night and won’t win the Superbowl ever again?

today, Monday, will be
a little more quiet,
a little more
average,
a little more silence,
only because
those fans
of the Green Bay Packers
will be walking
in immense sorrow,
moping in their green
and gold regalia.
Today, i probably won’t
hear about the Vikings’
losing record,
or (maybe) how
we have never won
a Superbowl.
Because yesterday we won.
But now, that doesn’t
matter, those
cheeseheads roll tears,
their symbol, that
which attracts mice,
were simply defeated by
Washington, and “the wind”,
i guess any excuse,
i’ll give it to you.
your silence today.

September 15, 2015

Minnesota Word Association

Vikings
Stadium

Tax Dollars
Consume

Corporate
Gangsters

Local
Buffoons

July 13, 2015

Confederate Flags, Cotton, & The Vikings; Modern Symbolism

I sort of understand
The confederate flag supporters—

I don’t agree with them,
But idiots are idiots;

I root for a losing team as well.

It’s insane.

The Minnesota Vikings are
Historically a losing team
That everyone loves,
Their organization represents
Our humble and beautiful state
In near billion dollar facilities
And tax incentives.

Now I wonder,
These two groups are similar,
The Southern States and the Vikings (The NFL Team),
In that they did/do not often win—or never did,

Same, yeah…
Different, yeah…

Use your imagination…

They are similar
Except for the fact that
the Vikings (seafarers) never kept slaves (presumably),
They just raped, plundered, and pillaged
Whole cultures and peoples (See: Ireland),
Taking power and rule,

By way of attacks.

I don’t think everyone knows this,
Or thinks about this
When they fly their purple and yellow flag,
Or when they don
Their cherished team’s memorabilia,

But we certainly care about things.

It’s always an interesting game of money and distraction,
And who can yell the loudest on what interests them the most.

Now, I don’t know who to root for anymore,
There isn’t really anything that doesn’t represent something else…

To everyone else.

***
And what about cotton, the cash crop of slavery?
You and I wear it on ourselves daily.
The symbol doesn’t need to be obnoxious,
Star-spangled, red, white, or even blue to be offensive.

There is hate in just about everything,
And love, if you look hard enough.

July 12, 2014

downtown alive

the downtown life;
bike,
bus,
people;
this traffic.

concrete jungle summer,
new-comers and city lovers.

the space betwixt is a waiting room for action:
excitement for concern,
mini-skirts, excrement,
and trash abandoned.

business casual, with cash they flirt,
although beggars with signs ask first.

there is always art, music, and thought to sell.

waiting is the pedestrian,
some adventure sought:
tourist; look at the mess we’re in!
bus-stop theatre, a show free of cost.

completely and utterly lost,
sticking out like sore thumb,
mind numbed.

through structures which shoot into the heavens;
box shaped, corporate; of consequence.

hotter than hell,
clothes transforming to shells.

spells, smells, and potions.

beyond tables,
the chairs,
the patrons,
and buzzing busy waiters and waitresses.

past signs,
commotion-
emotion,
causing big eyes-

knowing,
coursing
breathing
bleeding;

witness,
downtown alive.

August 19, 2012

Victoria’s Secret

I told her I take no offense; I enjoy being sexually harassed.

 

Ephemeral, fleeting; we just met now she is leaving.

 

An eye passes and we catch whatever it is that is special.

We are opposite each other, in respects, but we know opposites attract.

We come for the checks and to get out of debt.

 

Later:  At the bar laughing, gasping, grasping broad smiles, and social empathy over those in view.

 

Tasting the beer.

 

A piano bar at night, lit up nice.

Glad we came.

Glad we challenged one another.

 

Eclipse:  Moving towards, and covering someone for a moment, and then it is over.  It may or may not happen again in this lifetime.  Lamenting lifeline.  The light shines.  You might find…

 

No wine was spilt.

The encounters you have with the people at work.

We catered to the needs of others, after that we sat, we drank, we judged.

 

After That:  Intellect and free language brought us closer.

We touched hands; hers were colder.

I felt like a child.

 

Cold hands cold heart, and she was the boss of interest for the moment.

 

Earlier:  Ice water, and a mission, customers were kept intrigued as I by the sight and banter.

 

Later:  A sigh, and then more laughter; we spoke of the grotesque, the art, and the thought, politics and evil ideas, of past, present, and lost.

 

Something stuck out, yet hours flew by.

 

Momentarily:  A silvery purplish tint around the lids came through as she lowered her hair.

In the shade color spoke shame of physical violence that didn’t exist.

The things we imagine.

 

Sleep lost in the throws of a substance more important: conversation.

Rapunzel would have been jealous, black locks, dark beauty.

Stunned that she knew me.

 

She discussed how she loved the exotic and how white girls were not erotic.

I agreed as I disagreed, taking in the blond in the distance.

 

She must have been reaching 40 and was literally perfect; breasts, fit and large, hung against gravity like Spartans, frame, hardly there, I wonder about her diet.

 

That can’t be normal, she had to be from Georgia my friend said.

You can make your body anything we explained.

Her friends are all from Georgia, the ones that were talking about accents.

 

The wolves at the bar took notice diligently, not letting go until she left.

 

A few Gin and Tonics for the gluten-free, I ate less bread and felt better this week.

3 Premiums, I could have had more, but drunk people never score.

This round is on me, break to flee, never leaving that moment.

 

Attentive waitress thanked us a million for giving her six and that’s it.

Off to light up the night in a basement, in a condo.

 

Later:  Sitting bedside we spoke of authors, times, modern art to effect, reflecting now I wonder how we got so personal in such rapid fashion.

 

At That Moment:

 

I got up and left.

I hadn’t slept in 3 days.

I remembered my mind was playing tricks on me.

I felt somber and lost.

 

***

 

Transit:  Biking home at 3 am, biking through nothing, is it Monday?  Is it Saturday, is it Sunday?  I have not a clue.  Work does funny things to a person.

 

I pedal home and meet a blond on the stairs of my complex.  As I pass her she says hey and starts following, to a run.  She almost beats me up the stairs.  Confused I offer her over.  She came in and sat down.  She unloaded her life story on me 3 times.  I sat and sipped my wine.  I was confused, but her dress was falling off and I wasn’t sure what was going to happen so I listened intently.  This was such a contrast from the conversation earlier.  She spoke of parties, of poor management, of domestic abuse and verbal assaults.  I sat longer.  Finally, after an hour I said I was tired, so I walked her to the door.  She walked out and walked back towards me.  Her dress and appearance looking more sexual and disheveled; as if the deed had been done.  Sauntering towards me in her red flower-covered silk dress, paunch stuck out, arms set back, legs semi-exposed, she arched up near the door.  She pulled me to her at the frame, my hands touched about her bosoms and backside, we hugged, hesitating no longer we kissed.  She said she’d be back as she touched my nose with her index finger and drug it down to my lips.  Mason jar of wine in hand she strolled out the door and up the stairs.

Goddamn this night is weird.

 

***

 

Earlier:  Intelligent conversation, if only my friends could meet she.

The people we know from where we exist create bliss if you let things be.

Art has a hold on her, and as she says I should move to New York the Piano Man strikes up a cord to the same tune.

 

Don’t beg me, as I smile. 

 

2 am:  The time at the bar was over, night had passed for so many, but we had been stuck in a time warp, and almost forgot from the pot.

 

Like how right before something good happens you feel at your worst.

Like we are evolving-some people are born without wisdom teeth.

Like not knowing if Santa is real is the epiphany of curiosity.

We found the presents.

The tacit agreement between parent and child; forever remained captivating and devious.

 

And we kept talking…

 

Black holes.

Dark Matter.

Hadron Collider.

Dali.

 

We sat, I wondered if it matters if she moved

Our expiration date was years away.

 

The difference between Satan and Santa is the placement of 2 letters.

I tell her without words I will never forget her.