Minneapolis Downtown Prose

SONY DSCThis discussion…


Minneapolis is the best place in the world to live from May through October.  There is no better place.  There exists rich soil, water saturated lands, and a diverse population with many different cultures and beliefs-necessity in abundance.  A river runs through it, we have 10,000 lakes, we have The Current and a progressive music scene, which makes us better than a fly-over state, and we have bike paths for miles.


However, Minneapolis is probably the 10th best city in the winter…


…  So, just vacation for a few months in Florida.


If I could do this everyday:


Out the basement-color blue, blue tint, blue hue, blue paint; blew like the wind on a windowpane-not pushing through, like the 80’s bike frame I rode through the rain to get to you, and like all things next to and between, and transparent-see-through.


Blue like in love, it’s been in lost, in later than ever, and for what cost?  Time will tell.

Later back to the same, drop a penny in the well and wait for the refrain.

Believe in it so much I would change my name.


Realize the sky is above, as I kick the dirt at my feet.

Remember we are made of stardust in the smallest least.

From feat to feat, slept through my dreams and sleet.


Hiding from spies, not wearing gloves, kisses and free love.


A plain planet hanging in the balance, ever fragile, with soil, oxygen, water, and talents; Blue-green moving, spinning in the blackness, while we drill holes and clear forests, acting as if these acts aren’t causing damage.


Someone cries because they have been cheated, someone smiles because they got what they needed.


Drone attacks on smack.  Long kiss goodbye.  Work is code for crack.  John is code for Jack.  And so on until we die.


Off to start another day, another moment we can try another way.  Hoping that time flies-not like a ton of bricks, like kids throwing rocks, hitting them with sticks.


When we realize we are stupid we find we are the wisest.


The worst thing that could happen, and then its all right.  Clear sight.  Lights out for the night, I’ve been enlightened, and frightened.


The old bridge seems so logical; from one side of the river to the other, limestone squares arching over obstacle, and under.  What was a stream lies below and between.   It is now a full-fledged show of power, flowing along and through many dreams passing through at all hours.


Same dirt-same sand, same Promised Land at hand.  A pot to piss in and a tin can.  Fly a sign, and a white flag; sometimes giving up is a drag.  Getting up to take drags.


The ruins stand tall in the distance, looking on the opposite side they reside nearer to land, or beneath it, for all to witness-time span.


Broken glass, standing trash, weeds and ash; we bow to what was.  Once loved, now lost, now we view what was influenced by cost.  Shit fluctuated.  Shit’s outdated.


How it passed.




Spoke and chain sound a clanking refrain; I need to get in tune, bike needs to get tuned-up.  Tires, tubes, brakes…  How soon?


Past strong gusts from the St. Anthony Falls to St. Anthony Main, droplets of water with Mississippi smell, and I wonder if they found his body at all.  He is hooked in my mind.  I wonder if he is stuck somewhere, somewhere in time, underneath the waterline.  At the end of someone’s line.  And I think of the sign at the bus stop that said:  Missing John “Jack” Savage, call his mom.  I think I knew him, I don’t know.  Call his mom.


I was waiting for the Number-Four bus.  It was a Monday, near Bob’s Java Hut-near Uptown.


We wind up and down the river trail under bridge and traffic next to rock and shale.

People run, flailing, some to work, some to rest, some properly and improperly dressed; Tiger-stripes, drastic.


We ride into the wind again.


Small treat an historic retreat replete, and some conversation of what is and what isn’t love, of the past situation of the past as if it’s not now and the future come.


Ride up the black trail-industrial downtown and complex compounds.  Building up high into the clouds, looking up from the ground.  Do they know the 2025 plan?  She told me about it once before.  She said look it up.  I asked about it once more because I found it fascinating.


We went on, past an electric bike (never rode one before), wonder if she had, she said no.  I thought some more.


We passed the Northstar train and she had to go.  There was nothing to slow her now, even a quick kiss and then a goodbye.  Go.


Rode the street with the best downtown view.

Rode past the community college and some place I once knew.

Like, Hey You!


To Nicollet, passing La Salle, to downtown, through the mall-everything and all.

The epicenter of the 40 hour-a-week career-life, again, hanging in the balance-I wonder what they eat, I wonder what’s their challenge, I wonder if their seat is near where they fix their feet.


In the air everyone is busy, everyone in this city.

Acid rain, now, thick black frames.

Smog, wintertime, step through the bogs.

Walk like clogs, jumping like frogs, getting sicced like dogs-you get the picture.

These things all smooth out my rough.


All movement, don’t lose it.


This road needs work.  However, this street has perks; only buses and taxis come past me.  Around this part of town walk suits and summer dresses; not bad, breasts bounce, cats ready to pounce.  Haven’t seen it since last fall, they are still around and not covered in duck down.  In uptown it’s all black and brown, canvas bags and rags, green and tattered messes.

There is lack of shower with a mix of candlelight hope and minimalism for expressive power, subtly attempting to look uncouth.  Appearing drab in dreads, I wonder if the interview went well.  I wonder if they even have beds to hang their heads.


I wonder if this is a fad or a trend, I hope it is both.


Walking modestly, not holding to toast.  I prefer to chug my beers, some prefer to gloat-it’s a lifestyle choice.


A cool bottle awaits, an empty fridge where I pay rent.  The boys wonder what happened.  Maybe I grew up while they threw up, I just got dressed.  Maybe I attempt at prosper while all languish is fixation.  No clue.  I forget.  You can sit and wait patient.


On Nicollet to 26th to turn right and hit a few intersections, people stand waiting for what’s coming.  Not thumbing they ride the public bus to public school, they look bored, about to drool.  People open and shut doors, park, walk, open doors, come back after dropping someone or something off, and then leave.


I roll up on our one-way dead-end street.  Rolling up sleeves, crushing leaves.  Sounds about right.  The house is shit-brown and the sticker on the window was day glow orange, now torn to sticky threads, now remaining as a cryptic reminder:  Pay Rent.


Heading inside after I unlock two mechanisms, three after all.  Once more the front door is left almost wide open, open enough for us to be broken, belongings stolen.


Enter to a blaring radio and a blackened television set, I sit down, look about and try to imagine what happened.  I forget.


My mind at rest, yet feeling the best when all is a mess, feeling blessed.  I suppose I don’t know.  Change is change, we change as we grow, we change what we know, and what we propose.


And we are all naked underneath our clothes.

So it goes.



About Terry Scott Niebeling

Hello, My name is Terry Scott, a human being with flaws. twitter: @sirterryscott Buy my ebooks: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1/191-4788099-1818040?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=terry+scott+niebeling
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2 Responses to Minneapolis Downtown Prose

  1. Darrin says:

    You have a good eye… god thing you have a camera.

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