Posts tagged ‘What’

July 10, 2015

Do We Ever Actually Sleep?

Entering new worlds to escape another
I woke up from a dream in a lonely bed.
Real life sat next to it on the nightstand,
in the early stretches, in “slept like a rock”
preparation for what’s to come. Today
was like any other, though different—shall
we double: it is shit and it is great. I would
cite Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, but
they are dead. I would cite Anton Chigurh,
but he is nowhere to be found. “They are.
It is.” Those statements defining the
day, the morning, the thrown pillows, drool
stained, and crumpled blankets with their cat
hair, are your shell, your cocoon exited.
They rest there, waiting for another moment
to bring adventure, where you fall into the
fold and escape this life to REM, to where
monsters and mistresses await, where gold
and garbage stay; past loved ones welcoming
you in boats, and in jest. That to this, this
to that. Don’t become unwrapped for awoken
reality hits full on hard. There fellow man
meets to never actually meet. We relate,
but never truly. Reaching for the water on
the dusty dresser top, cat at my feet, shades
drawn, another day to walk to the kitchen,
open the fridge, to make breakfast, marks
and tracks, to make me. I enter this world
from another. I wonder, do we ever actually
sleep? And then I wake from this dream.

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March 24, 2015

forgotten change

A monoculture of plants
in a field
offers a species fading—

a group of homogeneous acts
between skyscrapers
offers a…

well,

you get the point.

***

Now,

I must have stepped onto the bus
and forgotten my change.

Can I borrow from you?

March 3, 2015

God Save Open Mic (a good place to judge art)

A room full of Artists standing high in watch,
One opens wide a mouth, exit words of thought,
An occurrence of perfect* art, too unmeasurably so;
Those in the crowd would attempt not to know.

*look up this word.

January 23, 2015

Pages of the City

The city center has
Been filled with

Trash.

These spots to grab attention,
To make you buy: react.

Local rags remain,
Good at that, and intact.

Though,

What stands out is
The importance they lack.

We have books by the stack,
Micro-brewed beers,
Diverse weather,
And bike paths.

We have beaches
In the summer months to relax,
And theatres like
The Guthrie to see acts.

Local mags don’t really map that;
They attack,

-With photos, lists, and ads.

Painting a picture without paving a path,
They write on setting precedent, because they can’t.

***
I suppose one day I will be surprised when an article proves friendly to my eyes.
But only after realizing how much effort was put into marketing to my demographic.

November 25, 2014

Naïve Play (as a boy)

When I was a boy, I sat on a polished smooth cement floor
in my father’s four-car garage. Below me were bits of broken
thermometer, recently shattered; this ancient device, with
Mercury inside. It had leaked out now, as I again dropped
a hammerhead on its transparent innards: the crunch of broken-
powdered glass- the ting of blunt object’s glance (on stone)-
the grating pitch of sand as it slid to, by this violent tool,
to be picked back up. Liquid splashed out, forming dots… These
blue eyes saw all, what fun! It was great until my mother put
her hands under my shoulders and pulled me away fast from that
spot. Damn the chemical reactions that capture our attention,
then we are –against our will, kicking and screaming, drug away.

June 4, 2014

Local Odds and Ends

Currently my ears are to The Current:
1.) I need to do a membership drive.
2.) I need to tell you what I have to offer.

You may need me.

The someday sun guides these moments,
Skimming and scanning words for entertainment.

Dessa Darling writes of trendy folk
Sitting somewhere in Uptown
In a hyped-up exclusive dive
She frequents all the time.

…How natural.
Feeling somewhat deprived…

Locally famous can get you work—
Haven’t you heard?
Can one person tell us of life?
Exposing us to worth

__Describe what to like,
And what’s cool, new, and authentic! (Right?)

Stories retold
Mundane to old
Fresh to mold
Hot to cold
And I digress,

I do so, but
So it goes.

Who decides the content?
What did they accomplish?

A fine print promise

Only allowing what we should know;
Ads and Marketing pave the road.

Candle to the sun
Eyes attempt escape
Another torn notion
Another empty page

We read on:
We read on.

Their sales people and prospectors betray
Their photo editors have much to display
Constantly political in profitable ways
Constantly cynical; printing what pays

And we run off to a book, to a poem, to a forest, to a river,
To hear nothing but the truth.

May 27, 2014

How to Label an Artist/Author

The Art we delegate
From our own perspectives
Shapes our lives by our objectives

Down along the river
Or near a country farm
Intersecting thoughts which gather alarm

One sees it as this
One sees it as that
But who took the time to create the abstract?

Drunk on a bent
Metallic mouth of pills
Constructing a piece of horror for simple thrills

Other way around
Small city, big town
We have nothing to be ashamed of; these entities which confound

Orthodox rigid
Purely stuck in her ways
Running and ruining the lot, dictating thorough days

She stood so tall
Fat shiny red virago
‘Nothing new under the sun’, she said- let that swine waddle

Pictures in mind
Drawings in chalk
Some people are artists, while others are just talk

Strolling through woods
Park groves we stalk
The sights and sounds accumulate here on this walk

Figure a fitting label
Sit at sparse dinner table
The wind blows in performing a fable

Absolute absolves
We can make it, one and all
That of which we announce as “Art”, -exclusively they call

Most things are Art, and some things are not
To be an artist you must show what you’ve got.

April 4, 2014

Cash for Compromise

Local daily rags adorned capital paid ads
Words minced in between seldom seem
Pin-prick point disorder has been had
Cash for incompetence, that’s wastefully redeemed

One needs a paper shredder for some sort of pleasure
This old-time failing marketer’s scheme upon me
From what I’ve seen there are no stories to treasure
Eyes on the prize, a fat hand full of cash it gleans

Politics and stance change like the weather
The reader is the one losing sight of what’s seen
You read this, you read that; for the assumed equal measure
Avert inquisitive eyes, these lines of falsehood reign supreme

But what I ask in my own research is:
Who is pulling strings behind the scenes?

As one can say in full-view glory
It feels wonderful to produce an untainted story.

 

Who pays you?

Who writes your stories?

Are they the same person?