A stick of incense lit up in the 4:15 PM kitchen
filling the room with a delirious sandal
wood parchment hut smokey-ocean
beach scent. Ashes from night-before
float off as silent as death or bold
faced nothing.
Subject to heaps of days until one day
falls over chosen where
car tires roll-hum over the secret
swish-hiss interstate and all that
full mooned wilderness surrounding
twist gnarled thorn branches
growing dry and arthritic out of
stink-ass mud sucks where clouds
of flies buzz and nuzz together
under the hot summer season.
Dull-brassed gleam of bronze gold-plated
marble, the tried and true stiff prick
phallus of the plains, the Nebraska
state capitol surrounded by ramshackle
ages-old neighborhoods full of silent
porches and crooked windows
glowing in warm lamps.
Sundown Sunday wrapped up cozily
into family, children sitting around
the island counter watching Rocky and
Bullwinkle on the computer screen
and the old ways of the old humor
wrap themselves around my kid's minds
and disperses the cold germ of
history into scratch radio signals
peaking at the sky invisibly. Deep
in the chilled shades of March, out of
evening doorways, the radio insect
chirp can be heard droning into
talk shows, focused media
chaos long past the old polka shows
and War of the Worlds fantasy. Orson
Welles memory, whiskey bit Citizen
Kane basements full of Nebraska
cobwebs.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
(March 16th, 2014)
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