Old Graveyards of Nebraska
Two tourist drive through the country
Neither has been to rural America before,
Yet they are now. Their car doesn’t stop often. They won’t linger.
Their only desire is get through the bounding plains.
They see the barns, the crops, the vigilant windmills, the small towns,
They throw garbage out the window
Yet at the end of their journey they’ll comment
-“How quaint”
-”how peaceful”
-Nebraska: “The good life” as the sign told them.
Well, come, enter my Smokey tent, and let me show you
The real Nebraska.
Look into my hands, at the cards I hold
Secrets, darkness, shame, deceit.
Look into this one- what do you see?
A grave from past a century age
No date. Only a name. Earl.
Another is written in German.
1866-1886
Another is for Thad.
Aug 8- feb 12
The latest- buried in 1971
Weeds cover the walkway
Rust eats the gate.
Look into this card
Road kill lays squished on the strip of pavement
Tire tracks cross its belly
Innards spill from its mouth
Its eyes look into yours
Flies eat from the broken skull
In this this card, we see a cat with a broken spine
Crawl across the dusty floor of the barn.
The farm boys laugh.
One year ago they both adopted the amphetamine habit.
They have in mind a treasure of copper wires,
Untapped veins in an abandoned farm house
Cash for their addiction.
They laugh as one’s boot crushes the cats head.
In this card, we see a silent car ride.
A van with the back sealed. The driver speeds by the barn,
Over the road kill,
Through the leagues of undisturbed night
The moon is full, and white fog flows
Over the muddy fields
Do you see the real Nebraska yet?
The driver takes his van down the country road,
The tires crush litter.
A page with the image of a small girl
Missing: call xxx-xxxx with info
It’s from a decade ago.
The driver takes the road until
Wet branches and thick trunks conceal the sky
The gravel becomes dirt. The dirt becomes weeds.
He passes the lost cemetery as his way takes him to the abandoned home.
A skeleton of a once great house
A clan of rich German outlanders,
A furtive bunch, long vanished from the modern world,
Now decayed, reclaimed by nature
Branches stab through the broken windows
The porch collapsed
The walls slanted inwards
The farm boys parked in the dark so not to be found.
Their senses are amplified, their scabs bleed,
They haven’t eaten in days but they think only of harvesting the copper.
They kick in the back door, and walk into the dark with only lighters to show the path in the dark
Flashlights being noticeable from a long distance.
Fools make poor thieves, after all.
The van parks in the front of the house
Out climbs the driver
Star light clears the path to the back of the van
Out he pulls a dripping canvas bag.
7 piglets disappeared from the facility
That night but under the heavy blanket of night
He would never be discovered.
He takes the bag to the cellar door, but stops at the sounds of-
The cropper strippers. They hear moaning from beneath their boots.
A brief spat splits between the two, but they find the
Stairs down, and the moaning becomes crying
One follows the other down, curiously, the steps creak,
The flame from the lighter dances on crumbling cement walls
A shadow emerges
One gasps, and curses at what the flame reveals,
Slithering, crunching, dripping,
The other drops the lighter…
Do you wish to see the last card?
I hold it my hand, faced away,
Be warned, there is no unknowing what is discovered
