At the Museum

Beginning in still lines and waiting
until finally filing into escalators
of black congruent steps
that lift the lines into other levels
where structure is less important
and groups disperse into other groups
until the lines are only individual dots
that hurry about and busy themselves
with distractions which took years
to create and now get passed
with the slightest degree of appreciation
or regard and every single dot wants
to be here and feel here and see here
and be seen here but hardly any
wants to sacrifice their private
charade and create something
worth more than what is
immediate. And stop taking
photos of the damn Picassos!

It Was Mine!

We sat outside on the rooftop and balanced empty beer cans on spinning ventilation ducts. In the distance, the skyline seemed at eye level and I was surrounded by great people- people I knew before formally knowing them. Before flesh, there were walls, trains, alleyways, sketchbooks. We laughed and moved fluently from simple, everyday conversations to the spontaneous moments of collective insight that happen when people get drunk together.
Three stories below, the streets are filled with drunk men and women, most are wearing cute little outfits and struggling to remember where they parked their cars. From the edge of the roof, you could see cop cars strategically placed throughout the area, waiting like hungry sharks at the fat people beach. Like many other nights in Northeast Minneapolis, they ate well that night.
I looked around at the rocks that blanketed the rooftop; what a test of self-control. Everything in the vicinity-- the drunk people below, the cop cars, the skinny alleyway cat stalking from shadow to shadow--everything seems like the perfect target for an excited drunk, especially ones that are entertained by spinning beer cans on ventilation ducts. At most of these rag tag rooftop parties, someone is bound to eventually give in, but surprisingly, no one did. Instead, someone came up with a safer idea- throwing the rocks at the beer cans that were somehow still spinning. A cheer erupted when the can was finally hit, head on, with a fiery crack of accuracy. Of course, everyone claimed it was their rock.

Campfire Reflections

Sitting alone,
Watching the embers of an evening fire die
With the northern wind coming across the lake,
My mind stirs deep reflections that surface slow,
Like bubbles waiting for the ice to melt.

I hear the calling of a cold owl,
The cry of distant wolves,
And the reluctant shift of tall timbers.
This is where I came from- the dry pine needles,
The patches of moss, and the campfire.

Twenty feet above,
Shadows are projected onto the pine trees
And glints of ash rise in circles until finally
Falling without illumination and becoming lost
To what is.

Last Thoughts on Michael Larson

The following is a piece I wrote over the past couple of weeks, an homage to Michael Larson, A.K.A. Eyedea, who passed away on October 16th, 2010. This person was someone I looked up to, someone who held a lot of influence in my life... someone whose work stayed with me and grew around my soul like a vine around a Century fence, know what I mean? For those who haven't heard much of his music, I encourage you to buy an album or two of his, in particular "The Many Faces of Oliver Hart," "First Born," and his latest release, "By The Throat."

For my homage, I chose to write a pastiche, which is a literary form in which you imitate another writer's style. I am imitating a poem Bob Dylan wrote and performed for Woody Guthrie when Woody was sick in the hospital... You can listen to it here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVbr0y8zp68

Although I still want to continue working on this (because I'm not entirely satisfied with it) I realize there's point when you have to let things go, even if you still think you can make it better. Far too often, with projects I undertake, I never finish them because I start something else or lose interest.. This leaves me with a lot of cool stuff that's only half complete. Anyways- with this, I know it helped me channel my emotions and work out some rather difficult kinks in my mind.. I hope you find a little truth in it...


Last Thoughts on Michael Larson

What can you do when the wind blows hard

'Til your face can't feel it and your hope's gone far,

When the words fall short or they barely imitate

All the complex emotions that you're tryin' to convey,

When the lights grow dark, and they leave the streets alone

Or when you missed the last train that woulda took ya straight home,

When the traffics too thick or a book is too short,

Or when you've gone downtown to face another round of court,

When your caught with your guard down, or your lips are too loose,

When rain falls in buckets and it beats through your roof,
Or when the scenes not the same as it was awhile back,

And your feet have turned left and walked right off track,

And your packs about empty, or your bag is all sticks,

And every feather hits ya with the weight of ten bricks,

When the coffee won't do it, and the beer won't either,

When your ex is with him every time that you see her,

Or when the kids seem selfish, and you begin to feel hopeless,
And when the things that you buy tend to blur out your focus,
When the comets stop comin' and the blue moon hides,

When you're tired, out late and still miss the sunrise,

When your back starts achin' or the needle finds a rut,

And you don't have the heart to quite go with your gut,

And the ceiling fan stops and the air settles down,
And its so damn hot that you curl up on the ground,

And you wonder to yourself... You ask you some questions-

Like, "How do I respond to all the shit that I'm test with?

Where do I move it? What can I tell them?"

Your winds knocked out so you wheeze instead of yellin',
And you gotta keep trying 'cause you're scared of sayin' quit,
'Cause you know every road has a hole, a little dip,
But the doubts still in you, and its weight feels tall,
Pulls you in between desires like the first snowfall,
And it seems mixed up in a dark shade of blue
With tight tangled knots like a little kid's shoe
And your mood won't mend with any headache potion,
Your skin won't smooth with any calamine lotion,
No matter how much you save or got comin' in a check,
What pattern that you wear or which chains on your neck,
It will not disconnect, keeps followin' you around,
In the morning, afternoon, and on the other side of town,
You feel stuck real good, just stuck in your place,
And you wonder why you joined this whole damned race-

Well,

There's a man I know that can guide you through this,
A man who wrote line after line of music,
That came to rest deep in the hearts of many,
He was known as Eyedea, of which he had plenty.
Now we all know an artist or two that has a vision,
and we all know some people who push beyond limits,
But this man personified potential he had,
wasn't happy boxed in with some short term fad,
or labels that only traced the outline he shaped,
wasn't one at night and another by day.
I guess what I'm gettin' at, what I'm trying to say,
is this man was original, authentic, and great-
and above all else he taught my mind to not wait,
cause there's a whole lot of work left beyond my gates.



Thank you Eyedea for all the inspiration you continue giving me. Peace.

Poems

Random poem...

Avenue Gal
She walks around on avenues
where the sun can barely see her,
with dandelions on her dress
and grass that grows to reach her.

Hearts increase their rates a bit
when winds against her hair,
and wind that's blown beside her
prefers to stay right there.

Waiting for the Rain

On the afternoon of August 8th, I'm stuck in my apartment listening to Fats Waller on the radio. Outside, the temperature is hanging around ninety degrees and the humidity makes you feel like you're breathing through a wet towel. Trees do their best to breeze, but the air is stubborn and refuses to move. The slow hum of my air conditioner reminds me that things could be much worse.
I walk out onto my porch and see a dark range of clouds that look like blue mountains in the distance. They are miles away but I can already feel them thinning the air, relieving it of its moisture. The wind finally gusts and pulls the treetops in every direction. I return to the cool inside and pack a canvas backpack with notebooks, pens, "'Tis" by Frank McCourt, and a bottle of water.
I walk downstairs, unlock my yellow Schwinn and ride against the wind to the Spyhouse at 25th St. and Nicollet Ave, where my friend Sean and I went before seeing "A Streetcar Named Desire" at the Guthrie Theater. We both dressed up to look the part and the barista said she liked my look. As we were leaving, I thanked her and we both looked back and smiled at each other. This is why I returned, hoping to see her in her black dress and buy coffee from her on a hot humid day and thank her as I left. So many beautiful women on these summer days in Minneapolis.
The sky begins to grow darker and I feel everything fall into place; cars parallel park, women unlock their apartment doors, and chairs are repositioned around the sidewalk cafe tables. I feel like something is about to happen, with all these actors and props so well-positioned, some significant event that will make me stop writing and simply stare into the street. Perhaps it will be a small accident on Nicollet Avenue, where driver after driver is undoubtedly texting and not minding the road. Or maybe raindrops will begin padding my notebook, making the wet ink expand and marble into different shapes that look like creatures from the deep sea. Or maybe now is when the beautiful barista will reappear, walking in and out of the shade, looking at the clouds like I am.
I wait, I listen, I watch, but nothing happens. I hear an older man a few tables down pass gas and his friend's hysterical laughter makes everything stop. I think about it and refuse to acknowledge that that was what everything fell into place for. Now too many people are around my table and I feel things falling apart. I move inside and find a small table beneath a painting of two white horses. The melodic sounds of "The Ethiopiques" plays on the cafe's speakers and track lighting reflects off framed artwork.
Too many of the same colors, I think.
A friend calls and she lives nearby. What are you doing, she asks.
Waiting for the rain, I say. Come over.
She finds me beneath my two horses and tells me to follow her outside, where she rolls a cigarette. I lean against the newsstand, study the clouds, and watch her ritual. She breathes and rolls and smokes and smiles at the towering clouds.
We should go to my house, she says, it looks like it's about to rain.
I agree, and I walk my bike alongside her tattoos until we reach her apartment. We finish my coffee and watch the cars and bikes pass along the street. A few friends pass and wave to us on their way, and everything seems to fall into place again.
Evening descends and the sounds of frogs and crickets begins to drone above the sounds of the city. My eyes trace the vines that climb the brick buildings across the street, where a woman begins calling up to her friend's apartment. No one answers, but she calls and calls and my friend and I look at each other and laugh.
We say goodnight and I return home to my porch, where the wind is still gusting and dark clouds cover the sky. I bring the radio outside and listen to more old jazz, like Jelly Roll Morton and other New Orleans cats. I lean back, rest my legs on the balcony and close my eyes, thinking about the barista, my friend's tattoos, and the rain that never came.

Birthday Card

8 - 4 - 10


Mom,

Happy Happy Birthday to you. You are the best Mom in the world,
and here are just a few reasons why I think so:

• Your unconditional love. No matter what the circumstances are, I know your love will continue, as strong as ever. Thank you.
• Your guidance. You are so good at guiding others (especially your own children) and making sure they realize their potential. Thank you.
• Your cooking skills. You are a GREAT cook... Well, you do come in second to Dad, but at least you have a great mentor around the house! :) Thanks for all the delicious food.
  
• Your Spirit. No one can match the zest you have for life; thankfully, your zest is contagious. Thank you.
  

Like I said, these are just a few. Thank you for being my Mom and I hope you have a great BDAY!!

Love,
Sam

French Records...

From my living room windows, the voice of Edith Piaf carelessly walks onto the heavy summer air hanging above 36th street. The piano mimics her steps, occasionally toeing out of stride and challenging the percussion that follows. Years and years have passed since her death, and the Little Sparrow continues to float in this procession of contained madness. Falling out of the window in slow motion, she carries me along and moves her hands through imagined knots in my hair, whispering lies I love to hear. The windows grow further and further away, until I can't remember the last lie, so I gaze into the painful dream that rests behind her face. We fall together but never hit the ground, and as Edith begins smoking cigarettes, I close my eyes and feel ashes fall over my face, burying me in careless dust. Then, just when I am unable to breathe, her pale lips produce the smallest stream of air, blowing the ash away from my face until I emerge from her spell. I open my eyes and see the needle spinning in the soundless void of a finished record.


7/18/10

- From Out of Nowhere -

Hello- I guess this is the official rebirth of my blog. I was initially using this in conjunction with a class/program at the U of M, but now (a year or so later?) I'm going to take it in a different direction. I have been writing quite a bit recently and I want to begin sharing it with people. Books? Who knows what those are anymore.. besides, real writers don't even write their own books... they're too busy ghost writing for others. :) This is not going to be chronological or themed in any way... just poems, stories, journal entries, etc... all from my treasured "cow style" composition notebooks. They're the best! Without further ado, from out of nowhere...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sound of rain falling for miles through the sky before it slaps the gray walkways and disappears into a giant expanse of depthless water. Each drop reminds me of forgotten dreams and trips on slow, winding trains. I would sit in the last car with a cup of coffee, each cup half as good as the one before, and watch the gravel sift from the heavy shake of the angry old train. The sun would find the trees before sliding down each branch, to where birds were already awake for hours, nestled between dry sticks, tangled towns of fishing line, and naked little eggs. The other passengers sat or lay half-reclined in their wicker chairs, baby blankets covering their laps, newspapers scattered about. They frowned from their physical discomfort, but smiled from their financial stability.

Occasionally, when seeing a beautiful girl walking down the isle, with warm rays of sunlight illuminating her body from the neck down, I would feel the impulse to leave my last car, my cup of coffee, and return to their world. We could probably have great conversations, agree on politics, maybe recommend books to each other. Still, every time I see her, I turn back down the tracks, watching the clouds and countryside move past, knowing that we are both headed for very different destinations.

And I'm used to it, too. All of it- the tired guitars I see around campfires and broken bridges, the shooting stars that float fast across the open water, the ancient lily pads that back away from jumping bullfrogs. Together, it all forms a sort of symphony that could seduce even the oldest of bachelors, the ones that never felt anything for anyone. Some call it a trap, a mere distraction when the ball is pitched or a favor you did for someone you didn't know that made you late for that last remaining ticket to the sold-out show.. or maybe its something as insignificant as a cloud that passes between you and one of them shooting stars. Still, that thing called love will always respond to the energy you give it.

I think about this whenever the sun goes home, when waves fight each other to gain a little ground, or when dry wood crashes down into a pit of red embers. There are wonderful people that live their whole lives alone, talking to their better half, mesmerized by what could have been and never was, and there are terrible people that live surrounded by others, infecting them with plastic expressions and expensive taste. I come and go between, learning what I can and switching my seat frequently. I don't pretend to have many answers, but when I meet young minds they can feel my age. They might watch me draw and smile at the emerging images, unaware that lines compose everything around them and light can be hid to produce something close to God. Its wonderful to watch this reaction, and for this, I smile too.

Breathing out, I look back down the tracks, behind the long, winding train, and watch another corner disappear into the distance.