Omaha DMV (from Red Book Poems)

Omaha DMV

It’s here at the Omaha DMV where souls brood

and quake amongst themselves,

DMV located at the

Hacienda Plaza next to the

Cricket Phone outlet.

Sitting here waiting for a friend of mine

to be done with his paperwork

to avoid jail.

Millions of bland forms and

flimsies flapping crisply on a summer

wind over the prairie voids

            to avoid jail.

Child support payment made

car insurance payment (optional

               depending on food

                     situation)

and my oh my isn’t that a bubble

               sticking out thinly

                     tightly from

                     the bottom of

                           the

                           tire?

Imagine the horrors of a

            flat and no spare in

            bland-blah

               west Omaha.

There must be better ways to avoid

                          jail.

   

               Hmm.

So my friend takes his number,

        ten minutes later his

        # is called.  News

        headlines flash across

        a silent CNN screen.

        Pure fiction and I’m almost

       certain even the village

       idiot is aware of the

       fiction of it. - - he’s ushered

       to the back with others

       into the mysterious

       behind-closed-door portion

       of the DMV.

To avoid jail.

I stuff my face and go to the

         hospital to avoid

                jail?

Fuck all - almost worth it

to sit for a time in the stir.

And I suddenly wonder in

              oddball

              trance like

              or transient

                    wonder

                    anyway

if Sylvia Plath were alive, would she

appreciate these or any of my

scribbles.  I’m almost certain

           she’d hate, despise, loathe

                        ‘em.

No matter, if she was alive today

we’d have time to discuss it

                    in jail

because jail is better.

Quiet murmur talk rustle-bustle

of applications and forms.

The T.V. screen is blessedly

                      blank now

and since my friend’s # was pulled

up in the sooner-than-later

I’m hoping to be out of here

           sooner than later.

Older middle aged duly poised

out of date couple like

my parents, man in useless

suit or where was he today

that he has to wear such a

             thing and wife

next to him white haired

distrusting of the woman behind

             the counter

but after they’re seated carry

on a conversation with each,

              personal, knowing of

              each, true.

All of us are such a mixed

                               bag.

The past is never mute.

It likes to creep around

            the edges and play

            a parting volley

            but in the end-sake

  

            ceases to

            matter as much.

I have all this air around me.

When the sun slants down

         filling up the western reach

         in blood before down into

         twilight where a heightened few

         stars sparkle

         (and where I reside)

tides are restless

and the world quakes.

Sooner than later I’ll be ushered

away in front of wife and kids

        taken to jail anyway

        ho-hum blah what of it

        as twilight sparks

       the lead-summer sky.

- - - - - - - - - - -

(May 26th, 2013)

https://soundcloud.com/urlp/leoneville-instr

Music is Dangerous (from Black Book Poems)

Music is Dangerous

Dark night, Nebraska night

chilled over ice on the

wood planks of the front porch,

this morning, no surprise

seeing the ice-caked roof

of our neighboring garage

our cars parked in a narrow

driveway snug black/white spy

versus spy cars under

weather conditions

strange and new, forth

                            coming.

Last night it was nearly

74 degrees in high of

high during daylight hours

therefore evening in Benson

proper was settled in

a feverish almost spring-like

impish fever-warmth. You could

feel energies unleashed

in the wet morbid smell of

it, spice of fall suddenly

carried away on a warm

agreeable but questionable

              wind.

All the usual characters

of the bar last night, all of

us laying claim to musical

and turf territoriales

in a great unanswered void.

There’s a sticker in the

                Barley Street Tavern

behind the bar at waist level

just below the sliding ice

drawer towered over by

glass shelves of opulent

glowing hard-booze bottles,

seductive bottle shapes,

reminds me of the old times

in harsh bloody knuckles

and after-day hangover from

blacked out fully

forgotten mayhems and yelling

but now sober long

enough to read the sticker

behind the bar …

             reads

           

“music is

              dangerous.”

Come down hard.

the thunder clap and

lightning strobe, slow

moving traffic up

Maple street, rain

drooling from stopped

up leaf gutters and

millions of rivulets

conjoining in gutter

sweeps of cold water

and chill of cold

front to come and it

was in between extreme

hot and cold that the

bands played and the

people swayed and the

floor shook and rattled

              drinks vibrated

              tables full of

              hand claps.

Standing in between

dim lights smiling

out back

in car and parking lot

just shy of the alley

and back of bold

rust-Irish Benson

bar ancient in its

mood and blackout Scottish

whiskey nightmare

                   shlosh.

A good turn of small time

money in the bar, stretch

hour and a half past

midnight, pay off in

the warm flicker glow

of welcoming bar lights

as opposed to bland

storefront liquor store

death tune.  Able to

pay off the artists

that night, good

for mornings breakfast

and tea

following day.

Now its so god damn

cold outside I can’t enter

the house without my

glasses fogging up.

- - - - - - - - -

(November 11th, 2012)

https://soundcloud.com/urlp/bloody-spurs-instr

 

Allergies (from Black Book Poems)

Allergies

Dirt filth congested cough

maxed out

lung

itch heave

salt-tears wet

faced.

Jelly view of all rooms

any room.

- - - - - - -

(March 24th, 2012)

Before Bed

Tonight clouds crawled across a yellowed musk moon over the water tower near Louisville, tiny red insignificant light on top seeming blood shot under the rust moon, signifying its loneliness over the plains.  There are few things more comforting than a dark two lane highway surrounded by night, the sprawl of unseen land on all sides absolutely closed down in the thick of it. We parked the car near the river's edge and walked past a lonesome unpopulated riverside diner with unseen red neon sign buzzing OPEN to the river, current of which moving rapidly east towards the Nebraska Iowa border.  Now home, before bed, reflecting on lunch counters in lone dot mean-towns just past the Nebraska Colorado state line.  Nothing is truly lost, seems all regains itself in time to the point where even death is a weak competitor next to the heart beating out time in my chest, the million or so regular unthought of beats per eternity.

Time for bed, can barely keep my eyes open.  

Identity

Identity

Angels in dust heaps,
moth winged superior
delta's in rust sweat.

All countries are done.

There's no chance or
      change from
      re-arrange face
in quiet grasses and
wind blown greenery
up in those tall Gibraltarean
trees swaying in their own
      invincible leaf-speckled
      applause.

The devil has wasted
time on me and the
     Lord is
     shepherd
     over mute
     stifled flocks.

I'm a stone in the creek
that caused ripples enough
        to be taken on further
        down stream

vibrations of a raw soul
in the summer morning
            hot wind, indentity
            dispersed, recalled
in crowds of dim
                   here-after.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

(June 22, 2013)

https://soundcloud.com/urlp/the-town