If you treat
Midwestern Poetry, By Terry Scott Niebeling
If you treat
This is Art.
Sometimes clattered on the desk,
Wearing his nails long;
Hollow bones or dead teeth,
Moving with gestures-
-Words on gender and pleasure.
One must point the finger
In a mirror
To find out.
Once to be challenged
Once to be inspired.
Ah, the English Major exacting his critiques on me…
God save silence, God save Education, God save humility.
Strong Autumn winds blow in;
Through trees, on a whim- these limbs,
and shadows made of them.
Exhausted year, once again…
Biers and tears,
Free and easy,
Mind’s been cleared.
Coming up wasted and frustrated-
Elliot Smith came up roses,
Empty handed impatience,
Changing mindset with practiced poses.
Some of the best luck of all time,
Some of the unluckiest best times,
Some logic takes heavy loads off minds.
Some laziness, what!? -The awful crime.
Round corners above pavement,
On a bike,
Life is dangerous,
Backpack filled with book pages,
Summer’s gone recently, but not for long,
This weather; indifferent, right, or wrong.
The Midwest is at least unique in that it is unpredictable in clime.
And I imagine Simon and Garfunkel will enjoy their vodka and lime.
Situations ( how I talk ): drinks after class
I’m at a convenient store on West Bank
Dust blowing in the wind
on a partially torn up sidewalk,
At a convenient store on West Bank
I’m in line to get cigarettes,
With a friend,
And my contact falls to the floor
Blurry and shit,
I can’t see…
It’s on the ground,
Patting my shirt, do you see?
I gleam the phosphorescence of it in the dim florescent light,
On the dirty floor,
What those had tracked in,
I pick it up.
Ali’s behind the counter selling cigarettes
Big bright smile
Looks at me
Hey, do you have any…
He doesn’t have solution;
But he can help,
Standing there, palming the lens
I tell him to give me some Visine
I unbox it
I pop the top
With the ease of expertise
Sit at a table
Some people are eating,
They get up and leave
I’m putting my eyeballs in.
Wetted the crumby table,
then I could see.
I wiped up what I had spilt.
And put the bottle in my bag to leave.
Thank you sir rang aloud as bells on the door-
Happily no longer in discomfort,
Then I walked across the street to Palmer’s.
Stench to prove-
Ammonia and hardened poop.
What it is.
No king cleans out cat shit.
In the air hangs
remnants of digested remains.
Hands to rearrange
Next to the toilet stool
What a silly fool
To be a cat;
To actually rule.
Waking each day to test my resolve
Walking around with patience
Living through the storm and calm
Resisting tumultuous agents
Frequency of seldom infrequency,
static-noised air to patient ear,
while colored with sun near a bus
or at the beach drinking beers.
Electric sounds come forth in waves
causation to rethink a certain thought,
eclectic colloquialisms, esoteric anecdotes;
meaning and purpose somewhat lost.
Effect and affect the way we make change,
asking questions: who, what, where, when, and why (?)
Coming from a time, this by-gone era,
not much action; save weather in the sky.
And yet always so much to say though,
because this is my local public radio.