The Wake

Who: Terry McAuliffe
What: Author discusses ‘What a Party.’
When: Wed, Feb. 7th, 7:00 pm. FREE
Where: University of Minnesota Bookstore (Coffman Memorial Union)Who: Ray Suarez
What: The senior PBS correspondent discusses ‘The Holy Vote.’
When: Thu, Feb 8th, 7:00 pm. FREE; tickets required. Call 651.696.6203.
Where: Macalester College
1600 Grand Ave, St. Paul; 651.696.6000Who: Nuruddin Farah
What: Author discusses his writing
When: Thu, Feb. 8th, 7:00 pm. FREE
Where: The Loft Literary Center
1011 Washington Ave S, Ste 200 (Open Book), Mpls; 612.215.2575Who: Writers of Color Reading: Julie Bates; Jessica Lopez Lyman
What: Authors read from their work. Hosted by Sherry Quan Lee
When: Thu, Feb. 8th, 7:00 pm, FREE
Where: Patrick’s Cabaret
3010 Minnehaha Ave S, Mpls; 612.721.3595Who: Skip Yowell
What: Mountaineer and JanSport co-founder discusses ‘The Hippie Guide …

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Standing at the bus stop, I scratch at my chin,
feel rough stubble growing.
my sweat smells like cigarettes.A mantra runs through my head, A poem fueled
by alcohol and late nights sanitizing, purifying my thoughts:
:
I take it all back,
It bein’ The Fear
I’ll mail you the change.I’m told of an old man,
He smells of antibacterial soap and war stories.
He is going back to Energy soon.
Decades of stress leave the old man’s face
visibly every day, every time he exhales
the wrinkles smooth out and ancient toxins hiss into the air,
harmless.
I take it all back,
It bein’ The Fear
I’ll mail you the change.

He couldn’t teach me how to be a Mexican,
The Spanish sticky sugar in my mouth.
It tasted sweet, but never would roll off,
Just stuck there, caramelized, a latent thing
That I would never really speak, just hear
From my father’s fluent foreign tongue.I looked a bit like him, but my own tongue
Was my mother’s, Minnesota’s. Mexicans
Made beautiful “R’s,” like the sound you hear
From a contented cat, but my own mouth
Produced the sound like lawnmowers, snow blowers, things
That I grew up with and could not shut off.It would seem only natural to be put off,
Frustrated, shaming myself for my tongue,
An un-exotic, bland and stubborn thing,
Refusing to assume a Mexican
Stance—would form domestic O’s with my mouth,
Like “boat” like “snow,” like endless roads I’d hear,Not …

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My eyes swell and ferment—
This poetry of desensitization
postured on this glass and plastic
synthetic mask I asked it to stop but it kept blasting and
what is it to break the flow—Give me some good old fashioned barn burning
best be sure that you mask this with petrol
and ask it to burn through to the exteriors
bind with the lines masquerading as cobwebs curtaining the street sides.I’ll give it a hello and call it a halo glow
with a drip, drip skid of toxic ecstasy.
I want to expose Grey’s
Anatomy and drag it across the floor.

Who: Lynne Eldridge
What: Author discusses ‘Avoiding Cancer One Day at a Time.’
When: Thursday, January 25th, 2 pm.
Where: U of M Bookstore (Coffman), FREEWho: Geraldine Heng
What: The Invention of Race in the European Middle Ages
When: Thursday, January 25th, 4 pm.
Where: Who: Northography Reading
What: Seven writers read from recent works.
When: Friday, January 26th, 7:30 pm.
Where: Magers & Quinn Booksellers (3038 Hennepin Ave S), FREEWho: Carol Connolly; Bart Sutter
What: The St. Paul and Duluth poet laureates read from their work.
When: Saturday, January 27th, 7 pm.
Where: Magers & Quinn Booksellers (3038 Hennepin Ave S), FREEWho: PRISM: John Landretti; Sarah Moeding
What: Poetry!
When: Sunday, January 28th, 1 pm.
Where: Coffee Gallery (1011 Washington Ave S), FREEWho: Kathryn Sikkink
What: Globalizing Justice: Do Human Rights Trials Really Work?…

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I wanted some good old-fashioned schizophrenia the other day—
some conflicting mind interest to get the ‘ole ticker clicking.At first I was hesitant, not wanting to pursue conflicting questions arisen
but instead pursue some truth and forget this blind vision.Turns out the mind doesn’t work that way, being mistaken for something
else, rather than that pigeon nibbling on its feathers outside the windowby the kitchen eating Lord knows what between its feathers—
exploring its beak—it’s a shame this fella can’t speak.I’ve got this box of radiation that likes to hang out
sending ripples into my eardrum trying to make meaning.My lips don’t make this same frequency. Is it really happening?
I don’t even know what Wolf Blitzer sounds like in real time.In my mind he happens to carry a clipboard and a beard on …

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We are the Fashionable Fascismo,
We type meaningless odes on Machina of MasochismoThe Macho Gestapo ate my spicy gazpacho,
So I made friends with a Rasta chick eating anti-pasto.

Fourteen degrees of winter,
the trees frozen in their stillness,
leaves still scattered upon the ground.
An atypical coldness,
one that smells like winter all the same.
This is a desert of homes, streets, shops and churches.
Its only color is the bright knit scarves
that adorn passers through.
Each body a small furnace
bundled to keep the warm in
exhaling exhaust in small clouds
that skim the shoulders and trail behind the body.
The sun erupts through an opening
shines down to defrost numb foreheads.
Your maroon mitten wipes your running nose,
as you look through the pieced trees and see her,
one of those people you used to know.
Like all this trailing breath,
the scarves, hats, mittens that have been around for years,
people who knew us before know things …

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Dive from the top
just don’t stop as it glints
with a tint of green hills
that now gray fading hintsof the young who cry out
although dumb still can shout
peeling chives that have dried
yes, and died from the droughtHow she climbs, no she leaps
lifting limbs past the cliff
where her feet seem to drift
in the midst of the deepSo the two do not eat
of the earth, of the air
No, they dare do not feed
for a wolf will not shareYet they stare and they stare
through the dark – through the night
and they wait and they stare
and they wait, where’s the light?
And they stare and they wait
and they wait and they …

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It was do or die for us. The air was cold and naughty. We felt like that feeling you get when you walk outside on winter days—cold and depressed. I don’t know why but there was this thing that was standing solid on the side of the passage—idle, like the mind of a dumb person. It was frozen, probably from the cold—because winters here are known for not being liked by many people. As luck would have it, a car drove towards us at a snails pace and finally picked us up. The man had a darkness to him, like a sandwich left out overnight. I didn’t know how to show my friend how the cow at the cabbage so I remained still and silent hoping my …

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I’m dead inside because of you.
I see those times we shared
laughing and being real
until you left me hanging.It’s not fair being human.
I want you more than anything—
even toast, like when we used
stay up late at night smoking weed and sharing
secrets.
Even the dark ones that nobody tells
because they make them look bad.I want that feeling again.
That desire to be more.
But alas, this is not my shore to
get off on.
Because I’m drowning and
not walking on solid surfaces.I want to be warm like a blanket.
I want to shower you with kisses.
But instead you shower me with a
cold shoulder and an air about you
like you think you’re better than me.You empty me
and make me cry.
I’ll never love …

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I knelt down next to him,
The knee of my pants quickly
Sucked up some of the blood.
I propped his head up on the
Railroad track.
The brown grass devoured
The blood like water, and
Suddenly the sun stood up
Accusing me.
The trail of his intestines
Slithered through the grass
And underneath the overturned car.
The two wheels facing me were
Still spinning.
I couldn’t tell if the sky was
Red or black.
Finally, the bright white of his
Eyes and the flies landing in the
Half of his face that remained
Attached to his skull made
My decision for me.
Carefully, I wrapped my belt
Around his neck and placed
My shoes onto his shoulders.
Dying through suffocation is
Supposed to be euphoric, like
Falling asleep. The
Clawing of his …

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I wanted some good old fashioned schizophrenia the other day,
some conflicting mind interest to get the ‘ole ticker clicking.At first I was hesitant not wanting to pursue conflicting questions
arisen but instead pursue some truth and forget this blind vision.Turns out the mind doesn’t work that way being mistaken for something
else rather than that pigeon nibbling on its feathers outside the windowby the kitchen eating Lord! knows what between its feathers
exploring its beak, it’s a shame this fella can’t speak.I’ve got this box of radiation that likes to hang out
sending ripples into my eardrum trying to make meanings.My lips don’t make this same frequency is it really happening
I don’t even know what Wolf Blitzer sounds like in real timeIn my mind he happens to carry a clipboard and a beard …

Read more →

Will a poet’s words be remembered after the drought of many seasons?
How do you organize the abrupt snap from the dream when you’re all disoriented—science?
When the leaves whisper in your ear, why don’t you stop to listen?
When you laugh, do you subdue it or laugh loudly that others might ask what you are laughing about?
When did a shiny new penny lose its appeal?
Where have the zeppelins gone that turn clouds of ash?
Are they just another set of lies told to make weak minds believe?
What is the sound of all the world’s music played rhythmically together?
What negative space did you break through today?
Why does the pen put me down whenever I pick it up?
When we step into our slippers, do they sigh with plentitude?
When Alaska …

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Thinking of my future.
I picture father’s face,
And realize,
That I’ve
Liked the Nobel Prize.
Since always.
It carved my smile.
The prize that’s never,
Advertised.
Like the pictures flashing
on all four walls,
That the boy’s black pupil,
Magnifies.
Laughter sickly rises.
From Radiation Roy.
That inanimate,
Mushroom-
fuck blindfold,
That changed all mankind.
Is paid,
to try,
To change my mind. I’m trying in turn, to turn
This Indian summer,
And unwrap confusion.
With just you and,
my, Shaking,
Hands as my, case against apathy.
It’s in flames
My state, fair
Wisconsin, is
Frying, but ma
Says, we must try to stay happy.