Cody C. Tracy - Poetry

These poems are just a few that I have created over the years of living and not living in my hometown. The ideas of the absence of my dead father and the absence of all people while living in New York for two years. I have decided, after coming back to Illinois, to attempt to capture some of the people I come across, or grew up with, in just a few stanzas. (all of the photographs are original works by me as well).

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Was it loud

because we were talking?

Or because

the trees were falling?

Grandma said that when she was a girl

her dad would save sacks from the chicken feed,

and her mother would sew them into dresses.

Grandma said that when she was a girl

men would donate old suits to the church;

women from the church would cut them into winter coats.

She taught me how to cut an onion.

The wrong way,

and that,

you can be anything you want to,

except Catholic.

We took shots of Mogen David wine on Mother’s Day

For Elsie,

We dodged harassment from Papa in the kitchen on Day St.

In between,

Shut the fuck up!

exchanged as love.

he ate ham with false teeth and a pocket knife

over a table he built

check the wrists

I gotta go tie my shoes

he’s the reason I wear boots

keep a pocket knife

and skin fish alive.

Through The Eyes of Carl

For the people

289 East Water Street

Galesburg

Illinois

61401

There are no secrets here

in the prarie between,

Mississippi and Illinois.

landlocked by trains

oceans of grass.

I sit amongst those who

disappear through this land

Abraham and Al

Carl and Michael

Elsie and Eleanor

We sit on roofs and ride over passes named

after township martyrs

feel

dizzy

they gave ten bell rings

for Senator John McCain

last night

in Galesburg

at a boxing match in the old

american legion

it’s not possible

to be alone

in this city

we stood in silence

hammer

bell

there are secrets here

in the land of hidden giants

baby bones, tunnels, underground

railways, press, presidents and

neighbors

leaving it

to return with grace

is magic

often people leave

bitter

Sandburg came back to be

celebrated

to celebrate man

for the working class

the prairie people

and Lincoln

dry land

and achy backs

he said he wanted to be buried

next to an oak tree

now he just wants to be

set on fire

Papa knows best

especially when

he knows best

were people live because

they know no better

Middle america

forgotten and

relentless

He looked good tall and tired

Just like me

make sure to capture it whiles it’s still alive.

The Sweet Smell of Regret

There's an old man at the bar

attempting to ask mundane questions

I refuse to turn my head towards him

You ever seen how they make Oreos?

Like in the factory?

I just nod my head and stare at the T.V.

A little before 5 o'clock'

jeopardy is on,

his gravel voice is so familiar

You ever watch the Price is Right?

I can't stand it anymore, too many fags.

I order another beer and shuffle in my stool,

it doesn't bother me much,

his statement,

he’s the kind of old man who raised me

A long silence awaits us,

I hear drops hitting the windows,

It's getting dark

and father has been gone for nearly a year

Alright buddy, well I'm getting outta here,

Got some food at the house waiting for me.

The doors opens and brings in

a stench of wet pavement

and cigarette smoke,

I got ten bucks left.

Cutting Down Three Trees With the Carlsons’ on The West Side of Town

The first thirty years of childhood are the hardest

Marilyn uttered under the brush falling

Though that’s an odd statement

He only lived fifteen years past that.

She passes me with grace

an effort I could never afford,

or conjure, on the prairie

or near a fit of passable praise

He was allergic to grass, scented soap,

and life.

Me?

it’s just the bananas.

Do you know that you’re just a box

At grandmas house?

Wrapped in black plastic.

Are your ashes itchy from the caste they shoved you in?

I could have watched the enferno happen

But watching you burn in pajamas would have been

Too perfect

We chopped down three trees in the midwestern sunset

You never touched one when we were around

Or the ocean, anyhow,

If the dead still speak

I’m listening now.