BURY ME IN OMAHA
there’s a tree at 13th and
Harney
near the steps of the old
Antiquarium
where ageing intellectuals
drank black coffee
and sold dusty used books
and records
to fledgling free-thinkers
bury my heart between its
roots, in a shoe box
filled with rare seven-inch
singles
by obscure punk rock bands
and all my unpaid parking
tickets
dig a small hole at the
cornerstone
of the Rorick Apartment
building
where I lived happily
amongst the roaches
in that filthy eleventh
floor studio
until I got evicted
take my lungs, that’s where
they belong
cover them with dirt and
bury them
with a pack of Pall Malls
the unfiltered kind
my liver must be disposed of
with great ceremony and
stealth
flush it down the toilet at
the CVS pharmacy
built on the site of the
old 49’r Lounge
where regulars came in
through the back door
spread sand on the
shuffleboard table
rested elbows on wobbly
high-tops
sticky with spilt beer
always playing the jukebox
hero
treat my legs to one last
polka at Sokol Hall
feed my flesh to the tapirs
at the Henry Doorly Zoo
my eyes and ears to the
pigeons
congregated in the Old
Market’s brick streets
crush my skull and bones
into fine powder
ride the elevator to the
top of the Woodman tower
release it all to the
currents
but leave my memories of
Omaha alone
they are my only connection
IN CABBAGETOWN
this is how we weekend in
weird wonderful Cabbagetown
walking in a drunkard’s
wonderland
street art gallery sidewalk
kaleidoscope
whimsical jewel of I-T-P
Atlanta
here we go again for drinks
in
wild walkable Cabbagetown
pitcher after pitcher of
terrapin rye
extra-hot chicken wings on
twilight patios
sensibility fades like
daylight
bless this indulgent
lifestyle in
wretched worrisome
Cabbagetown
argumentative uninhibited
we death-match
toilet hipster talk and
jukebox dominance
pay our tabs and stagger
home
Y2K
safety glass pellets
littered the KC
cul-de-sac where I parked
the Saab
the driver’s window was
shattered
its cassette stereo stolen
on the eve of the
new millennium
a three hour drive
home to Omaha
freezing in the cold wind
with no music
to stave away boredom
a black garbage bag
over the broken window
a most fitting end to
the 1990’s
the news predicted
mass blackouts
an apocalyptic nightmare
rather than fret doom
I went to a
party at a friend’s loft
in the Old Market
where punkers and ferrets
roamed the hallways
shitting (the ferrets)
and puking (the punkers)
then the morning came
an unholy hangover
head throbbing like it was
1999
the insurance man
denied my claim
I had to pay for the window
out of pocket
maybe the doomsday cults
were right:
it felt like the end of the
world
J. ARCHER AVARY (he/him)
J. Archer Avary is
a chameleon, a product of his environment, a restless wanderer.
In past lives he was a TV weatherman, punk rock drummer, champion lionfish hunter, ocean conservationist. At age 44, he still doesn’t know what he wants to be when he grows up. Maybe a poet?
He lives on a tiny island in the English Channel and is the editor of Sledgehammer Lit. https://www.sledgehammerlit.com
Twitter: @j_archer_avary
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