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It Ain’t The Prettiest (Midwest In General)

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A bunch of much of the same; Midwest-mold ubiquitous like the plague.

Break the routine like sinking into a grave.

 

I hear it on the radio, I see it in print.

 

Seen it, done it, heard it before.

I wonder, how long of a stint?

 

How much more, how much more?

 

Shit-sound galore.

Shit-material, what’s the score?

 

As if underground hip-hop is Amateur Hour Club at the dive, or just horribly inarticulate karaoke.

Something to be, don’t be.

Are you doing this jokingly?

 

Coffee from place to place.

The good stuff.

State your case, case your state.

 

Jumping on trend like an almost missed bus.

Jumping on love like lust.

Then bust.

 

As if Portland is Minneapolis.

Getting coal in exchange for your Christmas Wish List.

 

As if vise versa, or versa vice.

Who gives a shit, right?

 

As if La Crosse is cultured.

All progress has been haltered.

 

I’ll drink a beer on it.

 

The holidays are over, winter should be gone.

The year 2012 is over, you should be gone.

Why not go to the nearest local Coffee Shop and write an inspiring song?

 

Too much on my plate to save space, save time, save face.

 

Back to earth without a trace.

Cool beans, I love you too.

 

I am all right.

 

Passive aggressive, throwing it up like it’s the flu.

Done with the mundane typical spew.

 

Amy Winehouse is dead.

The Current is begging for money.

The government is still funny.

 

I’d rather talk same sex marriage and control of guns.

I’d rather talk homeless people on the streets and my lack of funds.

 

How about you?

 

Bowie came out and did it again.

Came out and did something boring, my friend.

 

Prince is talking about sex, breakfast, and an orange juice and vodka drink, and what do people think?

Such a genius, he is on the brink.

 

We came for the Atmosphere and left when we heard of The Chalice.

Breaking through the sacred palace of this fruitful scene, thinking:  I will literally burn this motherfucker down, I promise you, I mean this.  P.O.S. can throw as many

Molotov cocktails as possible, Tyler Durden is on my side.

 

Freddie Mercury called, he wants all of his ideas, sounds, moves, and lyrics back.

 

I have something to be excited about:  Something different, something advanced, something true.

 

You just got Ninja Mind Fucked.



American Money/How Thoughtful of You

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I stand in a land where Weathermen lie and people hide inside two-thirds of the year.

3 different pairs of shoes-my daily allotment, you can walk them if you care to try.

 

Remember though, somethings are not as easy as they appear.

 
Jack of all trades, master of none.

 

At times, so broke I want to cry; however, still working most days for a portion of payment to pay rent, and also most nights.

 

Part-time logic, I won’t pander to pension.

My 401K will have to start another day.

If I get hurt at work it won’t get mentioned.

 

What’s money made of, a few pennies?  How many?

Not many to me.

Not many to me.

There are a few coins in my pocket.

Motion to pants, white fabric, inside-out, you see?

 

Budget is like: check to check.

Live on tips.

Die on debt.

Yet, “Competitors bested,” challenges met.

 

I make enough to exist plain and clearly, to notice all grandeur near me, but when I drive I won’t maneuver a fancy sports car as I go by.

 

I realize it doesn’t cost much to pedal.

So, ride bikes.

 

All that, and still I don’t have kids, and still I’m not on a government program; food stamps and such.

Was while growing up.

Ditched that when I didn’t like the lunch, and then I got a job I didn’t like much.

***

I think it funny that America didn’t find money in train systems and bikes, they found more profit in rubber, oil, and all the problems in your life: Petrol, tires, and prescription medication.

This is some of my situation.


Take It As It Comes

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After you go, leaves come out waving in the trees, grass takes a greener shade of fresh, and flower blossoms bloom over, etc.

 

When you come back it’s not so bad, I guess.

Because the beauty you bring takes away my breath.

All worry and stress to forget.

 

At the end of a memorable day there is a sealed-kiss perfectly colored sunset.

Living now as if there is no past to regret.

Enjoying life in the present tense.

 

What would I change:  Nothing.

Take it as it comes, because either way it’s spent.  (Time)

 

Even if you are alone, know, spread, live, and believe in love, in attempt to do what’s best.

 

What else follows is the rest…


America The War Corporation; Syria

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America, as a government entity, is a corporation for capitalism-considered as an individual-a person, with all of the civil rights and privileges we citizens have been afforded.

Then if this individual sits trillions of dollars in debt, why are they allowed to pursue wars in other lands?

Should they not fix what is at home?  Own up to what they owe, for the better of society as a whole, for the better of the land?

Abandoning the poor, hungry, and diseased here, as they increase military strikes and spending by the year.

 

Killing our sons, daughters, and sense of pride, all in time.

 

Logic, hope, and decency are lost.

 

Measure the cost.

….  However, but not by all,

 

We can think of ways to change, but unlike our country we won’t act in haste.

 

Patience we wait.

 

Not standing idly by as fighter jets tear through the skies.

 

With sharp eyes, and even sharper tongues.

 

On Labor Day we reflect, have those in charge been laborious, or just increasing the debt?

 

History is written for thinkers and historians, lest we forget.

 

Politicians seem to overlook the past.

 

This person is American Government.

Stop this person.

 

They overlook their acts as if it hasn’t been as tragic as the last.

America needs to move forward for America.


Media Scandal (Print Shit)

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Just up the stairs.

Just down the hall.

Just out the door.

Written on all the walls.

 

Above the low.

Below the Glow.

Until the sun explodes.

We grow into tight repose.

 

Reading, shuffling our eyes;

Mundane, lacking keywords-no surprise.

 

Across the bridge.

Through eyelids and grins.

Ink like squids, afraid.

 

Made up like kids in past days.

 

Read, we’ve skimmed,

Looking for what interests her or him,

Between ads and shit.

Everyone is a witness.

Definitive and absolute on a whim.

 

Vicious id.

Have we truly lived?

 

Overdue when dead.

Leak like sieve, what gives?

All the articles we’ve read.

 

I’ve said.

 

Keeping my head on whilst trying to get fed.

Believing not what the paper’s black print bled.

 

I forgot the daily toilet pages, lest save dread.

Above all, those who remember are intentionally misled.

 

What do they print now-a-days?

What a waste, where’s the good nature?

Empty-headed straight-forward space-case, ready to put you in your place.

 

News Flash: External Cost, all we’ve lost in the name of being current, avoiding danger.

Newspaper Make-up: Corporation, Ads, Assumptions, and naive strangers.

 

Take up logic and stop it…

I usually read more than one.


Noble Inquiry

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Gatorade and Smokes,
MH-17 and Jokes;
People die,
Rebels lie,
And this concept seems remote.

Just ask CNN my friend.
you know they know, you know.
Stateside,
Lounging poolside,
Just hoping these floaties float.

Peace is always an option,
I think about this as I laze in the sun.
Long day
Hot ways
Realize the damage that’s been done

: Sunburn.

***

Revelation: Gatorade is for athletes and alcoholics.
Noble Inquiry: How many atheists fight in religious wars?


Local Public Radio

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Frequency of seldom infrequency,
static-noised air to patient ear,
while colored with sun near a bus
or at the beach drinking beers.

Electric sounds come forth in waves
causation to rethink a certain thought,
eclectic colloquialisms, esoteric anecdotes;
meaning and purpose somewhat lost.

Effect and affect the way we make change,
asking questions: who, what, where, when, and why (?)
Coming from a time, this by-gone era,
not much action; save weather in the sky.

And yet always so much to say though,
because this is my local public radio.


Every Story has a Companion

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It’s really easy
To look at one side of a story,
And to be affected
By just that one side.

But what I’ve found throughout the years,
Hours of thought,
Hard-work,
And beers-

Is that more often than not, that one side of the story is not alone.

Words and interpretation are never the exact
Same,
Objective,
Way.

Except for apparently in America,
In August, last week, right now, and today.



The Theory of Thought

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The theory of thought
Went out for a walk.

It was there on its own,
It needed naught for a home.

It walked by in due time,
Past the people in line.

When it was asked to come back
It protested with attack;

It hit and it punched,
It scratched and it killed.

It never stopped,
It was horrified and thrilled.

So when thought came back to this present location
It spoke to all those leaders of this great nation.
Thought said, “Use me or lose me, it is very true,”
“I was only here from the beginning to help you.”

*
Now there is proof for the thinker.


NBD MPR

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Listen:

Black ice with a dust of snow;
Causing foul for the work commute.
Dramatic TransAsia plane crash,
Beheadings and rebel fighting too.

-How about you?

Today’s News is blasé-

Most are concerned about the reality of:

Student debt,
Health insurance,
Early class start times,
And designer coffee that is simply too hot.

They keep us distracted and informed.


New Danger: Water Balloons and Squirt Guns

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Nowadays water balloons and squirt guns
are considered dangerous weapons.

Oddities which can get you tackled to the ground, cuffed,
and thrown into the back of a police cruiser.

It’s kind of funny.

I remember being younger, maybe 8 or so,
and having all-out wars with other kids
at Wildcat Landing near Brownsville, MN.

No one won, there were no casualties.

We would be throwing water balloons
and squirting each other with Super Soakers,
these dangerous weapons.

Their biggest offense was they wasted water.

To get it in the eye would sometimes start tears,
someone would inevitably run to Ma.

The midday sun was usually high,
the smell of sand and the chopping Mississippi
would be in the unbroken air.

Adults drank domestic beers and listened to classic rock.

We were just kids back then, with colorful toys.

Later on as a child, I remember my dad once shot his rifle
in the sky above a plainclothes officer
in our driveway at 1045 Bush Valley Rd.

The agent told us to get all of our guns/weapons.

I went inside and found my squirt guns
and brought them out.

The officer said with surprise, “Not those, son.”
He didn’t take my guns,
back then they were harmless.

He let me go, slap on the wrist.

Nowadays you can get arrested for that kind of stuff.

The shit we got away with,
man we were bad.


A Media Inspired Solution to Everything (Modern Movements)

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A pair of eyes stare at the “problem”.
A single mind labels, calculates, and retains.
A pair of hands do nothing for meaningful progress.
Another group of “activists” yell: change!, change!, change!


The Smoke Of Canadian Wildfires

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Milky veiled were silhouettes of downtown buildings from 280 at rush hour,
Wildfire smoke of Canada had pushed thru blanketing the humid heartland.


A Moment of Silence for Cecil the Lion

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Texts of love were left drawn
on post-it’s at the kitchen table—
outside Southeast was dark green
light blue and a soft cream, where cars played
musical chairs with endangered spaces.
A “truly real” JFK documentary flashed
on an antique dusted Macbook screen
as dead lions were tracked—bloody, slaughtered,
on airstreams of a dim kitchen scene;
talking heads were barking so loud,
along with representatives and agencies;
they described him as going out
like the late and tragic Francis Macomber,
like a stiff drink for Hemingway’s hands,
on a hot African Safari-esque day.
In the hot seat with cold feet, dew points
gone with yesterday’s sweltering heat.
Where, the frightened tenants overhead
were bumbling, dragging, moving,
as winds blew over the porch chimes, sharp,
an inordinate happy metallic song—
a cat jumped at the natural commotion.
Oblivious, like don’t you know?
What the fuck, and where’s my lunch?
A man oversaw over honey mixed coffee,
Hard eggs, and chicken-scratch lines.
Happy and broke, happy bloke,
and happy to be in a Midwest City, alive.
In a room with one warm thought:
I am not world infamous yet,
I am not like Dr. Walter Palmer.


making it ok

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perhaps, in a country where we have made it
commonplace acceptable
to meticulously disrupt and replace
those in far-off scapes

at the push of cold button–now, also
we find it ok to explain which might
or could happen so dire to us
while something right in front

of our very eyes happens.  Imagine that,
we the people see the foreshadowed future
as more imposing, more real than our present
which stalks about us, which tells us

to be concerned for. think of that day
that hasn’t happened yet, and be worried.



fake news/ fake people

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fake news
is
actually
news,
like
fake people
are
actually
people.
i mean
think
about it.
how many
fake
plants
do you
see in
your office
each
day, and say:
damn,
those aren’t
real
plants,
i won’t
see
what they
have
to say
about
things.


bundle up

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ere the cold wind
hardened person debacle,
post-repast,
i become less like
those who represent me
and more like myself,
still running from its presence.
we are found, as errant snow
in misplaced cracks
along the street–
never should have been there.
swirling excitedly
at the bus stop proper
under pink and sable skies,
this industry: dying trees, real waits,
away from it all,
lights out in the house,
purely darkened for late payments.
a book stands in my side pocket,
slick along the turns,
a clear door opens, “Hello, sir.”
and then the same door closes again
to shield me from it.
ere the cold wind, just as
it touches me whole.


i guess i am afraid too…

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i think of our fast time
when and where the fear
holds us tight, when
we tell everyone
how afraid we
are about everything
and anything, everywhere,
so vocally, so knowingly,
and how our ways only
will most likely change that fear.
then i think
about a class that
i took a few weeks back,
one of self-defense, surely,
when and where the
instructor told us all
to not be afraid
of the dark, or not
defend ourselves if we are
and we find ourselves in it.
i mean, it seems so easy,
but the basement can
be really scary, the dark alley
can be truly terrifying,
the misunderstood politician
can seem as the devil incarnate.
and then i remember
looking to outside St Paul,
out on the cold streets,
crusted in white hard snow,
alight with daybreak,
that cold that is out there
in the sun is more
dangerous to us–30 minutes and
you are dead, and that
the summer clothes hanging
in my gloomy basement are
only as scary as i make
them myself, they blow in the wind,
they touch me like shadows,
they do what i tell them
to do in my head. this is what i fear:
the irrational fear of others.
so, i guess i am afraid too…


Pioneer Press

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I love the local paper
In the morning
No matter the grade of slant
Headlines scream alarmistly
Pictures evoke my tender emotions
Even the coupons look good
Even the petro smells nice
But the letters to the editor:
Thats the realest news youll get
Surprise me insides
100 degrees today ok
Now i turn the page
Now i deplastic your outer
Now i spread you on the bed
Take it in, each page–o yes
Will be different tomorrow
I guess i love the change
Always the local paper


The Beer Dabbler

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under gray rain sprayed heavens
troves walked in boots and leather at the Dabbler
while leaving skinny smokers on the train
with their mountain bikes and their obsessive plans
forward to old new music and colorful tents and
pretzel necklaces and cardboard cut-outs
of Bill Murray and metal fences and Rhymesayers,
where lights up high on CHS Field, 3rd base.
they were setting the stage for warm flannel
thick beards, flowing flags, slick stickers, soft coasters,
and hips swaying and shouts and cheers, beers!
and laughs–the whole crowd, at broken glass cacophony.
we took it in in gulps and sups and breaths.
saw alcohol abused rounding the bases,
as a doppelganger and DIPA waiting in the wings,
Greenway from North Dakota, Rhombus Brewery.
and artisan everything beer from whiskey casks,
told them it must be the water that makes it good.
pine wood smelled of fresh hops
and more lights, don’t water my glass sternly;
im a postmodernist who enjoy labels: i like to
reflect my makeup like rings in a tree
keep going onto one another, like language,
all the way to the bathrooms and fireworks,
attendees hiding the buns at the center of
the table in VIP–VIP doesnt get dessert.
some sort of Seinfeld joke played out here.
the beer was dessert, free t-shirt, free glass, etc.
people laughing, wedding rings, pictures
text messages, cars coming head-on
from Union Depot. more selfies. a poet ponders
walks and writes, drinks listens to a man
driving Uber perhaps tell of everyone else
using excuses, good words, especially for what
we look like–he said, in their image: gods. i watched the traffic.
i get it, like i didnt try to get here very hard…
wet rain shell, spaghetti, wife and son.
Kelly’s is like a bar in my hometown.
more of a sore throat, thank god i dont smoke.
such and such, have to go back for baseball.
such and such, good free beer, tastes like i forgot…


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