Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Sketches - 11 (August 17th, 2014)

11.

Child is up at 1 AM wandering
hobbling over the carpeted living
room floor, laundry spins
in the other room - preparations
for Monday - somehow get the
week started right.

          Pop the bone into its
                 socket,
grease the tired wheels.
I can barely keep my eyes open.
Soft cumulus puff comfort bath
and all that darkness out the bathroom
                    window.

Clean blankets to steal the chill off
Ash’s trembling shoulders as she’s
come down with a brain scrape
                      fever.

My son Jesse keeps making a
bee-line for the aloe-vera plants
those long thick pulpy appendages
with cacti-like needles at the edges
enough for a learned child to be
                   wary.

Nevertheless - my son charges over
there and he’s starting to wine,
grows tired, walks back and forth,
back and forth, and one of his toys
(the play toilet) in the other room goes off suspiciously,
                      probably needs batteries.
                      Perhaps some ghost kid
                      took a shit in there just
                      now.

Freakish sad things are toys when
left unplayed, still-life, untouched,
Nutcracker suite logics.  Toy soldier
marching in holly-ivy delirium some
white out Christmas, dull bone
haze of cold outside, sweltering  
fires roar within.

My son has got to be ready for bed soon.
Still, I need absolute proof of it.

I don’t think I recall my 18th month
albeit had to be similar to
Jesse’s at least I hope so with
all the rumbling tumbling around he
               does.

Outside this ramshackle house’s
picture window is Cuming Street
traffic flashing and roaring past.
And beyond that, large swathes
of prairie and geometric farm fields
like puzzles fitting together snugly
yet hardly a small town to save
anyone’s ass from wandering around
for hours through roll along hills until
your face feels chapped with
road dust, wind and sunlight -
skin as stiff as a pastor’s starched white
                               shirt.

(August 17th, 2014)

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Monday, August 25, 2014

Sketches - 10 (August 17th, 2014)

10.

I keep seeing shapes of people
where there are none.

The shapes flit around peripherally -
       I glance in that
       direction and the form
       is gone

and I consider - - -
       what’s real and unreal.

Flitting carousing figure past the backyard window
and a strange deja vu grips
whatever in me is sensitive
to such things - meanwhile,
          ‘I’m a rattle snakin’
                       daddy’
           sayeth the blues man.

He sings it like silk in some plain nondescript room.
I imagine the wallpaper is crimped, bubbled,
and trembles slightly in an open-door breeze.

Folks, music-folks are gathering
at the Sunday ramshackle house.
Dark alley entrance huffing cars
and oblique flavor of my pipe
ash ploofing into mouth and spit
it out by the back load-in door.

It makes us weep and moan,

ain’t nothing but a hound dog
             sniffin’ sniffin’
               at the door’

(August 17th, 2014)
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Friday, August 22, 2014

Sketches - 9 (August 17th, 2014)

9.


Sunday grey day Sabbath and
snarl engine car start
for cranberry juice
        and donuts.


As I make the early morning jaunt and forget
            myself -
on the run for donuts, approx a dozen
or so (er so)
thinking about varieties of
power struggles, meek bird chirp
message on arrival to Pettit’s
Donuts on 16th street off the dim
shoulder of downtown Omaha
across the street from Sol’s Pawn
               disco/rap/hip-hop thump-bump
               from some unseen passerby
               junk car vehicle mayhaps
               closer to the pawn shop across
               the street.


And it occurs to me as I hear the wiry
early morning bird sing-song whip blurt
that the only answer is to be active at all
                             times.


(August 17th, 2014)

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Thursday, August 21, 2014

Sketches - 8 (August 16th, 2014)

8.

Night overhead
           cozified night and
           recording will commence
just as soon as I dive out to
the splintered spider infested
guts of our ancient moldy
smelling garage to retrieve
my amp out of the trunk
of Ashley’s 04 Dodge.

Night overhead
cozified night of
warmth and laughter, actions
taken over time to make
it all the more marvelous,
songs sung, whole family
dinners taken in, the
growth of our children
and various house changes
as everything changes and
partners in crime pass
through with melodies
and uproarious evening
fall down as the summer
changes over to the
tint of fall gloom mists
in early morning upheaval.

(August 16th, 2014)

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Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Sketches - 7 (August 15th, 2014)

7.

Clouded over skies, lush explosion of
trees on the other side of the
country club’s thick tinted glass.

Old folks sitting at the bar, talk neutral toned
quiet voices rattle of air vents
from the ceiling and the funny
undefinable smell of a far
off kitchen and a building’s age.

A kind of rotting smell.

Laurel leaf carpet design
employees with plastic trays
to carry leftovers.  All mirrors
and pictures, paintings or
framed photos are spotless.

Wilderness of wealthy and
begin to nod off at it, can’t keep
my head up.

Country clubs are always depressing.
I cannot help from wondering why all this
costs so much.  And what is here to be
valued really?  Oceans of the world heave
and groan, the earth cracks and swallows
the living, when you die, you go to
                    God-knows-where
and the best we as humans can do
is construct a country club to
rub in class distinction as
far as it will go?

This is not a natural disaster -
         this is human failure
         and frailty.

Tonight I’ll be in some rot gut bar
watching and tweaking my wife’s band
as already there are troubles with the line up
and troubles with various sets
because everyone goes every which
way and this is why music is a business
           of relationships.  Its the only
thing that can possibly hold it together
and therefore is mafioso when it works.

And it rarely works if ever.

A man I know whose mother
is a resident in a nursing home I
work at says hello to me
and says he’s a member of the club.
He has a golf tan.  His mother
was one of my favorite residents,
a woman with a heart of gold
raising her kids in the north central
Nebraska area from a small town
surrounded by snaky networks
of Loup and off-shoot of Platte rivers.

Women walk past - kerflop of platform
shoes whisping by knob-limbed doe-eyed,
plastic surgery startled, all muffled
here, all quiet for the love of God
     KEEP IT QUIET!

And approximately ten hours from now
we’ll be roaring sounds over puke
stained cigarette butt scarred
side walks of Benson just to see if
it STICKS.

(August 15th, 2014)

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