at Length
Superstition Freeway
ON-RAMP
A tired voice we don’t remember fills us
With its story half buried and held many exits away
Where all must take a ramp to lift them onto a well-paved arc of dusk
And we think of our birth desert its city the epicenter
How it reads like an instruction manual for electronics no one owns anymore
Grackle feathers and dusk draining like two fingers left of the bottle
The left hand writes as the right hand erases many exits away
The story so far no less lost
Reads like the instruction manual for electronics no one owns anymore
Youth is a meal we didn’t eat or worse
We did and its stock its blood clots the dust
Fills the grid that reads like an instruction manual its city the epicenter
Of electronics no one owns anymore where all
Must have a ramp to lift them onto a well-paved arc of dusk
There are fires in rusted salvage pieces
If weather is wick if effigy is fire sundown etc. burns off like a spill
Down its well-paved arc a finger left of the bottle
The right hand writes as the left erases
The story we stop telling ourselves we burry many exits away
Hands closing the distance around the desert’s epicenter
How it reads electronics no one owns anymore
There are fires in rusted salvage pieces
Heat rattles the safety glass its smeared groan from no one
A tired voice we don’t remember fills us
EXPRESSWAY
In the if-then that we live in then leave
Smooth stones sunk into the silt you spend a lifetime retracing them
Is there ecology in the curio shop
Trackless stretches hills and storms breaking apart
Like Kleenex where an eye pulls open then struggles to keep itself shut?
Bulbs burn across the canal as apartments jar awake
From a dream we won’t repeat stones sunk into the silt
You spend a lifetime retracing
Where an eye pulls open and shards of clear sky
Are pitching above the playground equipment
The jesses and varvels as if the falcon-headed god struggled
To keep itself aloft the trackless stretches
Storms breaking apart before the eye
Is there ecology in the curio shop
And will animal memory labor long enough
For me to bring an ear to its chest and not hear it stop?
Is there ecology as apartments jar awake
From a dream we won’t retrace smooth stones sunk?
Headlights like milk through a semi-transparent
Brood we won’t wake from the trackless stretches
Storms where an eye pulls open then struggles to keep itself
Shut will animal memory labor long enough?
My hand is on your breast you’re breathing
In the if-then that we live in then leave
COLLECTOR ROADS
Touchdown Jesus burnt to the ground
Then cottonwood seed against a picture perfect sky was like something white the near-blind see
And call out to
Then onto the rustic surface the fiesta retinue of stoplight peppers tumbled
And water beaded on farm-fresh ingredients like weather on a Corvette
And if it was cottonwoods you wanted
Pray something else toward the something white the near-blind see
Strewn against a picture perfect sky
And water beaded on farm-fresh ingredients like weather on a Corvette
Is this the hundred year flood? wet your fingers snuff that votive
Mother Life’s got a riot gun behind the door
Then onto the rustic surface the fiesta retinue of stoplight peppers tumbled
And water beaded on farm-fresh ingredients you were stranded
But loved by everyone
But the amplified message
Of hope bungee corded to the top of the van
Echoing if it was cottonwoods you wanted
Pray something else toward the something white the near-blind see
Plastic chassis jaundiced by the sun were strewn against a picture perfect sky
Something white and the fiesta of peppers tumbling
And water beaded on the farm-fresh ingredients like weather on a Corvette
But nature then
Was no sliver of light beneath a pantry door
Touchdown Jesus burnt to the ground
SIGNAL BUTTE
Televisions turning tarot in the dark house
Sparking chimes of phones the small commands their loops emit
My chemically imbalanced sister sits on the step
As in the book of miracles and its chapter of plagues
When the call comes the clouds are saying when the call comes
As if I were the speaking pit of a cured plumb it’s in your mouth
And may I be literal for a moment the loops emit
The chimes of phones the small commands
When the call comes the clouds are saying when the call
Skins stretch taught around misfiring synapses
Who cut the floodlights from the parking garage?
The clouds are saying its chapter of plagues
When the call comes the clouds are saying when
My chemically imbalanced sister sits on the step
Shelling peas into a commemorative cup
She dreams of a Pepsi machine at the bottom of a mine
My chemically imbalanced sister as if I were the speaking pit
And may I be literal for a moment when the call comes?
And lonely chatter relay after relay the loops emit
A moment of floodlights as in the book of miracles
When the call comes the clouds are saying when the call comes
Shelling peas into a commemorative cup
The mind a hand no higher power stays
Televisions turning tarot in the dark house
CHILD IN UNLANDSCAPED MEDIAN
You pumped gas as she chased blowing trash
Across a cracked and weedy space no transformation from carcass to sanctuary
The calendar oxidizes but shines like lead
Shut up dream weaver you season of snares and heavy-tongued euphoria
The child’s face is crumpled foil and Velazquez’s little person
Is a cluster of chromosomes season of brightest flower
Scurries with ants from carcass to sanctuary
A cracked and weedy space no transformation
The child’s face is crumpled foil and Velazquez’s little person
Can’t stop shaking for Pablo Picasso
Whose unstrung posts stretch a dark road homeward
Shut up dream weaver you season of snares and heavy-tongued euphoria
The child’s face is crumpled foil hinging the nozzle
Back into its holster the calendar oxidizes but shines like lead
A beetle smack against your face
To prop up the facade that you know what’s happening
The calendar oxidizes but shines like lead a cluster of chromosomes
Brightest flower scurries from carcass to sanctuary
Season of talk to hear yourself talk a cracked and weedy space
Scurries with ants shut up you weaver of snares and heavy-tongued euphoria
The child’s face is crumpled foil and Velazquez’s little person
A beetle smack against your face
I hear your wings but I can’t see you
You pumped gas as she chased blowing trash
EL CAMINO VIEJO EXIT
Ask and answer are the echoing hemispheres
Empty bowls for owl-call for a last forkful to come spiraling back to us
But we’ll find our way as we did to early retirement which lead us to
The mountains we told ourselves we’d always come back
Severance package in the pocket of our sweatpants
Our mustachios trimmed we have time to mill around
The great bird on the spit for owl-call for a last forkful to come spiraling back to us
Empty bowls cracking the words severance package
In the pocket of our sweatpants
I would welcome the opportunity to serve jury duty in the near future
Ask anyone and the story of our lives is that the story and the mountains changed on us
The mountains we told ourselves we’d always come back
Severance package in the pocket of our sweatpants the scattered trees
Each tree is the hanging tree so unlike our memory of the mountains but we’ll find our way
Now my buddy there see his mouth he can’t remember the hymn
Float–me–a–boat–oh my soul–take-it–from-me and I–will–search–take–it–from-me
As we did to early retirement which led us to mill around
The great bird on the spit for owl-call for a last forkful to come spiraling back to us
Still in flight the bird fills the valley the empty bowls
The great bird on the spit come spiraling back we told ourselves we’d always come back
Severance package in the pocket of our sweatpants
Now my buddy there see his mouth
And-I-will-search-for-it-or-deny-it-which-is-the-soul’s-story-take-it
Ask and answer are the echoing hemispheres
CRIMSON ROAD
A swallow escapes the tree exploding into flame
A tawdry symbol for spirit I know but it’s here as you drive to work
And suddenly you’re encircled by a moral light exposing every blemish
The mutual sorry you feel when looking at carp swaying in too little water
There’s a lull in the pageantry and fear becomes a kind of felt-covered prerogative
A tympanic expanse beyond your cracked windshield
That has always been there it’s here as you drive to work
Which is another tawdry symbol for spirit
There’s a lull in the pageantry and fear becomes a kind of felt-covered prerogative
Nothing like instinct
But your hands stay under the faucet for a long time
The mutual sorry you feel when looking at carp swaying in too little water
There’s a lull in the pageantry trees burn birds flee
Are you worthy of wine and soft carpet when suddenly encircled
What makes the cone of light you occupy so heavy the desert so much shovel-work?
Is this mysticism now?
And you’re encircled by the tympanic expanse of your cracked windshield
That has always been there it’s here as you drive to work
They’re firing into the crowd there’s a ladybug on a girl’s arm a tawdry symbol
It’s here the mutual sorry you feel when looking at it
There’s a lull in the pageantry and in the cone of light
So heavy the desert so much shovel-work
The brink or swell cresting its end without end that sets us free
A swallow escapes the tree exploding into flame
INTERCHANGE
Swift-like torrent of rapacious birds between us
Sunlight spectral as if woken from a deep sleep to shine a flashlight
Onto the paths empty our path perfect the horizon a replicating fork with
Buildings are we agents of this profligate and prodigal event?
From pelvis to skull and in the arches of our feet
Heat slowly burns off between buildings
The dog’s blind face barking at my bedside shine a light into it
Sunlight spectral as if woken from a deep sleep
From pelvis to skull and in the arches of our feet close the lid
On the day the minutes’ moth-like proboscis sipping from a flower
Along the road heat slowly burns off between buildings
From pelvis to skull are we agents of this
Profligate and prodigal event and are we the bereft
On our perfect path the horizon forking us into the midst of it?
The rug beneath the spider web is peppered with planes without pilots
We’re staring into the ductwork who’s filming us?
The paths empty the horizon a replicating fork between buildings
A dog’s blind face shine a light close the lid
To tumble through rough bedding to the dog’s blind face
Spectral and woken from this profligate and prodigal event
From pelvis to skull and in the arches of our feet the rug
Beneath the spider web is peppered with planes without pilots
Spiraling don’t you feel it?
Swift-like torrent of rapacious birds between us
POWER ROAD
The Moog synthesizer on the island of secrets
Is leaking
As if right into the foamy ochre of our lives dreaming of taco salad and a friendly face
The synthesizer the size of a small house is safe from us but leaking
I shut the car door so I won’t hear you cry any more
And tell you (but you can’t hear me)
That the massive transmitter cabled to the parking lot is
Leaking
I shut the car door so I won’t hear you cry any more
Into the weather or signal that the transmitter was erected to warn us about
The power goes out in the Country Buffet
The synthesizer is safe but leaking
I shut the car door so I won’t hear you plan the rest of your life i.e. what you would do
On the other side of celebrity
Because how can you know I don’t
Take any of this lightly
As if right into the foamy ochre of our lives (but you can’t hear me)
That the massive transmitter cabled to the parking lot
Making me feel so I dunno intrinsic is leaking
That the massive transmitter cabled to the parking lot is safe but leaking
I shut the car door so I won’t hear you cry any more
Because how can you know so don’t
On this side of celebrity the siren dopplers and diet colas spill
The Moog synthesizer on the island of secrets
ADVANCE SIGNAGE
Felt marker frown drawn in the unventilated hour
Dust motes hanging inside the car I remember
The Western Black Rhino is extinct
And there’s the naked welter of the town the arrows’ neon silenced
Something old and eaten reappears on the firmament
As paragliders spiral toward a distant grand opening
Their purple flares smoking over traffic I remember
Dust motes hanging inside the car
Something old and eaten reappears on the firmament
Hot wind twitching the door’s torn seal
Stokes the ashes with more coals as grease drips through floors
Through the welter of the town the arrows’ neon silenced
And something old reappears on the firmament a welder’s arc
On the naked eye the Western Black Rhino is extinct
Piggybacking and aloft the heat-smeared morning
Damsel- and dragonflies’ pleasuring brains two grains but are they brains?
The Western Black Rhino is extinct paragliders spiral
Their purple flares over traffic like feather boas
Tossed onto the astronauts’ tickertape parade
The flares smoking over the cars their arrows’ neon silenced
Something old and eaten reappears on the firmament
Piggybacking and aquiver the heat-smeared morning
A newfound presence pauses for the fanfare their numbers our
Felt marker frown drawn in the unventilated hour
ALMA SCHOOL ROAD
The withers the bridle the bit each horse was different and one was yours
An animal cut from the boreal hardwood of memory the carousel
The white star on her chest burns as your bedroom goes black
It’s here you tap your chest that wants to be whole
And see what the animal keeps
But not all the bulbs are broken bad company until the day I die plays
And you hear the recursive music and feel okay an animal cut
From the boreal hardwood of memory
And see what the animal keeps
Tomorrow try answering the question the half hours amass
Superfast is coming so fold it up in your pocket
It’s here you tap your chest and ask who wants to be whole
And see what you keep of the lights at Legend City
The white star as your bedroom goes black
Your arms are around the animal’s neck
I don’t know how to be alone the wood is split
The white star on her chest as your room goes black but not all the bulbs
You hear the recursive music and feel okay
The wood pinches your leg the boreal hardwood of memory
You hear the recursive music and ask who wants to be whole
And see what the animal keeps
Your arms are around its neck
Your mother digs through her purse for a match
The withers the bridle the bit each horse was different and one was yours
ARTERIAL ROADS
The preacher rose from the canal with a girl in his arms
And in the sky a helicopter winked as we stood in dirty water
Welcome to answer city
The hum and lure of check-cashed halogen and fans were the throne-chariot
And shopping carts rattled in spillways as it rolled
He said there was a table and a sink inside the motor home
She was ex-Jehovah’s Witness their pit bull’s name was Caiman and a helicopter
Winked as we stood in dirty water
The chariot was the shopping carts rattling in spillways as it rolled
The best year of my life we never locked our doors
But if you jimmied that lock Caiman would know
The hum and lure of check-cashed halogen and fans were the throne-chariot
And shopping carts rattled as it rolled
Caiman was a boy pit bull welcome to answer city
If you looked Caiman in the eye Caiman would know
The danger of roads is global the thirst to keep driving un-slaked
Welcome to answer city there was a table and a sink inside
She was ex-Jehovah’s Witness their pit bull’s name was Caiman
A plastic loaf of bread was broken beside the railing
She was ex-Jehovah’s Witness and in the sky the lure of halogen
The throne-chariot rattled in the spillways as it rolled
If you looked inside Caiman Caiman would know
Where is Caiman now he said Caiman would know
The preacher rose from the canal with a girl in his arms
PEREGRINE TERMINUS
To unfurl a wing before whatever world you want
And to look freely into the sun’s conspicuous absence of destiny
Scaffolding around structures you have come so far to see
Puling discord of tires as airplanes land world enough
For the vows of separation or a bridge out in between
On either side of it you want through
Before you their haze their towers’ conspicuous absence of destiny
You want to look freely
Into the vows of separation or a bridge out in between
Travel diaries open and read to you the words massacre rock hen vertigo weather
Droplets like hunting spiders on the wire
Puling discord of tires as airplanes land world enough
The vows of separation or a bridge out in between
Structures you have come so far
To see the counterweight sinking as you rise
Stained glass esophagus the elevator rattles through
Scaffolding around structures on either side of it you want through
Before you their haze their domes the towers
And there is the neck of the blood bird pulling and the crow’s conspicuous absence of destiny
Before you their haze their domes the towers’ puling discord of tires
The vows of separation or a bridge out in between
The counterweight sinking as you rise
Your hands against the glass as if
To unfurl a wing before whatever world you want
Miles Waggener is the author of two poetry collections: Phoenix Suites (The Word Works, 2003), winner of the Washington Prize; and Sky Harbor (Pinyon Publishing, 2011); as well as a chapbook Portents Aside (Two Dogs Press, 2008). Since 2006, he has been a faculty member of the University of Nebraska at Omaha Writer’s Workshop. He lives in Omaha with fellow writer Megan Gannon and their son Manny.