Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Sketches - 30 (September 16th, 2014)

30.

The skin of my fingers and bristled
hairs on neck-back  -
          brutal Douglas county
          courthouse

          everyone in stultified
          lines to the judgement.

Apologetic attorneys.
Blanket legal forms and chips-in-paint
courthouse high ceiling.  

I sometimes wonder how anyone
in their right mind took the trouble
to draw up all these laws enforced
by people employed to papers in rooms
at the top of granite steps.  

Blossom gloom of anger cells
and a stale heavy creep in the lower
guts, nothing grey colored
standing under the topless
half dressed scales of justice
woman, blindfolded, ready
to go like all socialized rapes
under Midwest full moons in all nude
juicer bars and meth-head dying
                deaths.

You can go off into the night and never
come back, never be seen or
heard from again.
If you go far enough into the hungry
flat void of Nebraska, no
one will be around to hear
the shotgun blast.  Small towns
dry up like splintered leaves
and memories have
a voice when the wind whispers
through the dry husks
              of fall.

(September 16th, 2014)

Monday, September 29, 2014

Sketches - 29 (September 15th, 2014)

29.

Full on dark-chilled September
                night.
My toddlers wobble across the
living room floor.  
Always a curious trembled
joy when my youngest Jesse is
set free from
the confining play pen.

Izzy chases a blue
        balloon -
    Lowen miraculously
      plays a video game
      at the age of 3 and
                           3 months
      and Jesse grabs   
      an empty cup, covets
      it with each proud
      wobble step of his tiny
                           feet
                           to and from.

I’m getting older every day.  I've resigned
myself to it  I allowed myself
to be fully baptized by the idea of time
and all its furious currents.

Last Sunday I saw
a small group of grey dung
beetles waiting on the
stone wall of the outdoor
steps to the right of the
garage, about 9 of them
gathered there still and pepper-grey
with movements that almost
looked strategic, thought out -
         I was careful not to
         step on them on the
         way to the back door -
         somehow I was repulsed
at the sight -
          imagined my whole body
           covered in these ancient
           mechanical moving
           beetle bugs, legs blurred
           and loathsome crawl.

The earth opens up cold this
fall, the early morning subdues the crickets
and cicadas.  The wiretap and
dot bleeps of a million shaded
corners and valleys that formed the
insect wave antenna is a wave receding -
                        pulling back

and I’m getting older every day.
Nothing to be done about it.  

(September 15th, 2014)
____________

Friday, September 26, 2014

Sketches - 28. (September 13th, 2014)

28.

Sun is out this fall-beginning Sunday,
     vacuum roar and run-a-chore
     to Mom’s for a plant stand with Bryce,
     old ‘father’ grandfather in-law.

Change is on the air and creeps into
the grey valley.  

(September 13th, 2014)

____________

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Sketches - 27 (September 13th, 2014)

27.

Dead motionless gloss of balloons
on a perfect cool
September Saturday.

All the spectral deep daylight
through the front picture window
and stained-glass side window in
its amateur brush strokes
                      long ago
                      faded blue
                      and charcoal
                      red to rust orange,

the wind keeps gusting at
different points, some of it high
above the giant sprall-trees
miles and miles of oak, spare
clumps of aspen
            in a nameless twinkle gust.

I stood on top miles of
heavy tree’d expanse next
to the Lake Mahoney State Park
activities stage building, we played
songs between a few storytellers
as Ash and I were asked to
               do.

From that point it was hard
not to pay attention to millions
of those branches swaying tossing turning
down below, hypnotic waving luring
                  motion
as a few folks told their stories and we
sang in between.

Yet for all these formal storytellers
and summer to fall festival
parking lots full of old people
cars, Buicks (reminds me of church
potlucks of early 1980’s in deep
freeze Nebraska winters) the true
story fills up song spaces, empty sheets
and pages, tangles up the audio
tape and scratches at the
hard drive space millisecond
at a time - never completed
but a series of stopping points
               then beginning again.

(September 13th, 2014)

________________

Monday, September 22, 2014

Sketches - 25 (September 7th, 2014)

25.

Driving down rain choked
tree doltish wind swept
Leavenworth street
drool water over fogged
car windows.

(September 7th, 2014)
___________