Archive for the ‘Art & Literature’ Category

The problem with dreaming

August 13, 2011

Sitting next to my brandy snifter,
I wonder why I have no silk pajamas.
A cigar would be the exclamation
point in the quintessential image
of western decadence.
Where’s the fireplace?
Or my condo on the beach?
I’ll just have to wish
away my modern problems or
settle for the friends couch
in the Midwest. A cat
snuggles on my knee, drooped
over like a panther napping
on a tree limb after its
kill of dry kibble.

Portrait of a Bath

August 2, 2011

In a cool bathtub in

a cabin on Deer Lake,

I lay submerged, mostly,

with only my knees and face

above my lips over

the surface. Such a place

is unique in that it is

optimal for considering yourself

as you relate to the world.

Every breath buoyances my

body up, letting my lips taste

the air once more, before

the exhale, and I hear my body

working over the the muted

sounds of the stereo.

I reach down to scratch

a bug bite on my back

and my penis breaks

the surface. I realize then

that I had actually forgotten

about it for a time, so surprised

was I to see it.

The lake outside is the natural object

I seem to be trying to replicate,

the tub just a forged installation

piece designed so that

you too can enjoy the

perks of a quiet submersion

in the lake, but without

all the hassles and messy clean up.

The water is warmer than the lake.

There are no bugs. I have

my choice of music as loud

as I’d like. And the possibility

of a fish swimming by mistaking

my forgotten penis for a worm

are virtually nil.

I obviously feel bad for

neglecting my penis, if only

for a few moments.

It won’t be forgotten again.

A Paradox

July 31, 2011

The phrase “unique kink in

how I think” won’t leave my head.

Perhaps that means something

I haven’t yet thought of or

it is itself the end result.

While I consider how individual

my life truly is, whether or not

my space in existence has been

occupied before and whether or not

that’s a bad thing, a dog

is chasing flies near me.

I’m sure I don’t need to explain

what the dog is thinking. There’s

a paradox between us, despite

the fact that I too swat flies.

Last Night

March 13, 2011

Where are the friends I’ve seen, drunkenly fucking

to the place we commonly

refer to as regret?

Are they staying up past an inflicted curfew,

only to fall asleep on neighbor’s couches

before they’re able to become

one with themselves?

 

It happened to me, watching art films,

forgetting to masturbate.

The next mornings always come.

Coffee, a simple breakfast, trying

hard to not spill on yesterday’s clothes.

I read a biography of someone I admire

who has seen worse than I have.

 

These are things that happen to me

when left alone, where I attempt to

part my thoughts with a comb so

I look good for pseudo-hipsters

aiming for a pure democracy.

It’s apparent I’ve been influenced.

How about you?

How about your parents?

What is the driver of your machine?

When you figure it out, process your databanks

with this in mind and cry, yes cry,

 

at how little of yours is yours, and

you’ll soon forget that it was you

who invented forgetting to masturbate.

There is no obscene trash;

it’s all been recycled.

 

And maybe, by the time you finish your coffee

in your clothes that smell of sleep

& missed opportunities & sleep,

you’ll remember that the night before

was never just yours,

and you’ll take solace in this notion.

Then forget any of this ever happened so

you can ask yourself again the next day,

perpetual novelty for the mind to boost

an intellectual ego gifted to make

the same mistake gloriously, just

to feel a little life every now & again.

Gas Station Employment

March 13, 2011

At a Super America convenience store

in South Minneapolis, 2007, nighttime

thugs & hustlers with modest aliases during the day

shot junk in bathrooms and brawled

by the coffee and donuts that shift workers

bought prior to morning.

 

Call 911; a routine that blurs eyes

behind bullet-proof glass,

hiding money in case the brawlers need a fix.

“You got somethin’ ‘gainst niggas?”

cause I was some hick honky

glowing in the night.

This was the curriculum for my

urban education.

 

It wasn’t all trouble, though.

Subtle requests to join clandestine three-somes

& purchasing handmade crafts

from Mexican immigrants who speak

enough English to find bathrooms

and peddle their goods.

 

It was a corporate oasis in the midst

of those making it anyway they know how.

Criminals on both sides, we would

lean against the cigarette racks, sitting

on milk crates & drinking coffee

hoping for the sun to peek out

from St. Paul.

 

Am I better acquainted with the man

who threatens me after I caught him

stealing energy drinks, or

with the faceless name who signs my pitiful paycheck?

The name, which I forgot,

fired my ass for drinking the coffee without paying.

I’m a thief in the night.

Fear me, as Super America does.

Short comings

February 7, 2011

I usually prefer when people

stop crying for me when

they’ve witnessed my shortcomings.

Really, it just makes me feel worse. That pity.

Makes me worry about myself. We

don’t want this. I function

much better when I take myself

out of my own equation.

Myself + 1 = 1, lest we muddle math

with personality.

Though I wonder if perhaps, just this

once, I’m wrong.

Can humanity be quantified?

Can humans be qualified?

Are these even questions

we’re allowed to ask?

That time I was caught

kicking my dog while

chocking my kitten

by the neighbor, I

cursed the neighbor out.

“Why don’t you mind your

own damn business?”

I yelled as a knowingly

convicted man would.

I have to ask… I have to…

but what is the measure of

my humanity at that point?

I might have an answer

to that question, but I’ll

take it to the grave.

This truth will go with

the dead flowers, whether

it belongs there or not.

Thoughts of a Sentimental Man

January 31, 2011

There’s a cat in the other room

scratching furiously at the door,

obviously looking for someone to

converse with.

If I were a sentimental man,

I’d use this locked-up cat

as an analogy for my heart,

trapped & desperate  to get out.

This melodramatic scene

at best would get me laid

if I told it to the right girl

in just the right situation,

waxing sentimental poetic

under a full moon.

This poor girl. Falling for

such cheap tricks from

a sexual predator.

The analogy could then

be used to describe her,

trapped in guilt

for allowing herself to

be so easily taken advantage of.

The cat in the other room

is quiet now. Obviously

at peace with the loneliness and guilt.

Apartment Items Concluded

May 12, 2010

For those of you who’ve paid attention to this blog, I’ve been posting a series of poems called “Apartment Items.” The series consisted of 50 poems and an adjoining essay about the series. I’m proud to say that tonight I posted the final poem in the series, titled Daily Poetry Calendar.

The poems truly exist as a series, feeding off of one another in order to duplicate an essence of my former living space, so individually they don’t say much. Now that they’re all together on my blog, I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed writing them.

And don’t forget to check out the essay. It’s an informative piece that gives some greater insight to the concept behind the poems.

Daily Poetry Calendar: Apartment Items

May 12, 2010

Pull a page off and there’s another poem, quote, of factoid.

What more could an aspiring writer ask for?

I like my calendar.

White Board Calendar: Apartment Items

May 10, 2010

It’s currently a month behind.

But really, when it’s kept up on

it’s very handy.

We can write the days that bills are due.

We can write different obligations on it.

Yeah, it’s just really handy.