Midwest Soliloquies

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Abstract

ever dreams. We called our heroes by their real names that night as psilocybin honestly slithered within the neuron trees of despair and we were lost waiting for the moon to show us out of these ghost towns Near Beatrice. At the edge of Lincoln, sitting in that graveyard, we spoke of beautiful things. I think I loved you on that July night but knew it was just the wispy clouds and the booze distorting the spirits of old Waiting to wake up, from the worms and soil. a gravestone read <i>Margaret, a loving mother, 1883.</i> God, how old we were in the world decayed in places tattered. Yet I still smell the clove cigarettes standing in the Arts & Humanities parking lot speaking of those lost things in the murky ravine. Speaking of homeless poets that didn’t grasp their eternal oneness with the earth and I wondered how long you’d make it before you OD’d. And I wondered how long I’d make it before I went mad. Yet these memories crack like crystal ball romantic perpetuity as we recite the Lord’s Prayer while committing adultery in our minds. While we trek across saline wetlands and count birds that dwindle by the year those endless nights those wicked nights nights of debauche

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ry and beauty how many of us are truly alive? Dying in the moonlight waking in the vibrating guitar and solemn song that opened doorways beyond gods faulty empire tipping words over, we fell and fell and fell The world never hearing our cries. our curses our lies. And as whiskey bottles shatter alone I80 railroad tracks we heard the horns blaring, and we laughed corrugated metal screeches as we rolled on the grass knowing then</p><p id="e09e">we could never go back.</p><p id="5c2d">© <a href="undefined">Bradley J Nordell</a> 2023</p><p id="163a">If you enjoyed this poem, you might also like to read:</p><div id="ef75" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/forgotten-memories-of-tomorrow-61c418fbfff5"> <div> <div> <h2>Forgotten Memories of Tomorrow</h2> <div><h3>A poem about the cyclic nature of life</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*S_q5rhSDo0YNH3x3)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

A poem to those teenage years, long ago

We fled our homelands but not ourselves searching for art in the chaos hiding our hearts in jagged hills and steep highways tipping over mountain ledges just to feel something new to hear death cackle like ravens over a dumpster fire. Sunshine on our tongues burn as we recite the poetry of dreamlike surrealist paintings With the caresses of sensual enigmatic lovers unified again under the red moon of December. Pioneers Park obscure marvels in ancient stone and wooden gardens we gabbed at firefly music remedies tumbling slowly down the hill hand in hand following shadows of lost dreams, knowing the only place this all ends is to be etherized before daybreak shines through moldy walls and cracked ceilings in Briarpark fever dreams. We called our heroes by their real names that night as psilocybin honestly slithered within the neuron trees of despair and we were lost waiting for the moon to show us out of these ghost towns Near Beatrice. At the edge of Lincoln, sitting in that graveyard, we spoke of beautiful things. I think I loved you on that July night but knew it was just the wispy clouds and the booze distorting the spirits of old Waiting to wake up, from the worms and soil. a gravestone read Margaret, a loving mother, 1883. God, how old we were in the world decayed in places tattered. Yet I still smell the clove cigarettes standing in the Arts & Humanities parking lot speaking of those lost things in the murky ravine. Speaking of homeless poets that didn’t grasp their eternal oneness with the earth and I wondered how long you’d make it before you OD’d. And I wondered how long I’d make it before I went mad. Yet these memories crack like crystal ball romantic perpetuity as we recite the Lord’s Prayer while committing adultery in our minds. While we trek across saline wetlands and count birds that dwindle by the year those endless nights those wicked nights nights of debauchery and beauty how many of us are truly alive? Dying in the moonlight waking in the vibrating guitar and solemn song that opened doorways beyond gods faulty empire tipping words over, we fell and fell and fell The world never hearing our cries. our curses our lies. And as whiskey bottles shatter alone I80 railroad tracks we heard the horns blaring, and we laughed corrugated metal screeches as we rolled on the grass knowing then

we could never go back.

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