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.