Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Hardly Strictly

me the black seals a few of us in our stoned drunken glorious euphoric acid baked pod encapsulated within among amidst the multitude we gather in the meadow gather together to celebrate to immerse ourselves

to listen learn participate

doctor john having sailed his psychofunkadelicious whitebelly blacksoul riverboat self all the way here from that french confederate creole haven our majestic lady with a perverse jambalaya of petticoats rye whiskey french reds latex and blindfolds

the city of new orleans

doctor john having come to join us all in reverie and merriment come to join us all in these hardly strictly shenanigans of bluegrass by the bay deep within the whimpering fog long since defeated by the early october sunshine

right place right time

and we the black seals a loose confederacy of dunces of former adherents of the faithful grown older with our aches and pains but looser with our morals and attitude

comfortable in a certain aura of what the fuck that tends to ward the harsh from our mellow

and for that we are grateful

and we the black seals who many a year ago came together about around a bottle of black seal rum imported all the way from that colonial home of knee length shorts and sock garters grown from some rock out in the atlantic ocean imported to our baghdad by the bay

oh what a world

what a world

a gathering around this bottle not out of any committed love for black seal or even rum in general

but rather simply from the inspiration of the moment

one pill makes you smaller

and we the black seals we now gather many years later here in our decrepit presence we now gather to express our love and admiration for doctor john our momentary journey into the heart of blacklit darkness a delving into sunday morning irreverence doctor john our own personal jesus of the hour our own personal satan

god is love is jesus is satan is god is love is jesus is satan

and we the black seals we who yes openly practice idolatry of the most blasphemous and perverse manner we shake our hips we wave our arms we do the funky chicken

we play air guitar air banjo air piano

we play air fiddle with a grin and a giggle

and we give thanks for our sacred church of the temporary respite because regular life won’t let us behave this way

and we pursue our own personal vices be they weed women or wine

and we oooh we ahhh as a big pink balloon comes bouncing back through the crowd launched from some amorphous virginal birth canal up near the stage up it pops bops floats

guided by its own faith its own fate

anonymous hands outstretched rising up above the mass of shaggy waggy bags of flesh and hair jiggling wiggling fingers dancing

here is the church
here is the steeple
open the doors
and see all the people

big pink balloon bouncing bopping

the people wanting only to touch his garbs they say oh they do say he has cured the sick raised the dead

and on the third day the big pink balloon bouncing bopping a gift from the goddess herself she who so loves the world that she farts bubbles of balloons spews them upon her worshipers and on the third day her spawn settles upon a sharpened nail

bursts

with a pop

just like that cycle of life

big pink balloon bops and pops its bloody remains plummeting to earth only to be picked up by an errant seagull who swoops down leaving a jet stream of biologic jetsam and anal jism upon the knit cap lidded cowboy hipsters from the mission an avian packrat fascinated captured by the shiny bauble that is this fragment of latex

who flies away carries it over the hill soaring with its mates over the presidio over crissy field over fort mason along the coast down to fisherman’s wharf circling down to land amidst the fatcat sealions piled one upon the other on the dock at pier thirty nine piled up in some orgiastic slithering and braying bacchanal

one of whom snaps at this avaricious avifauna specimen startles shakes confidences the shredded corpse of our savior the big pink balloon flips flies up into the air

a slow mo tumble cartoonishly animated by sparkles of salty sea sweat

snagged on either end by two other feathery cousins who pull tug stretch jesus armstrong across the span of its invisible cross that we bear

till it snaps yet again our buster keyton savior flip flopping air amoeba tumbling pink cotton candy only to land within the random trumpeting snout of some bubbling bull sea lion

in mid coitus

its rigormortic aquatic cock let loose upon his harem a finny fuck for any and all

who gulps swallows screams a horribly murdered prostitute pre-ghostly wail rolls over his rooster pointing sunward tongue flailing into an effervescent gurgle

a gagging

a sudden stillness

a still silence

a blubbery cock cooked cadaver surrounded by panicked females

witnessed by a towheaded minnesotan all of two and a half years on this here earth who up until this moment had been laughing and pointing at the silly seals while sitting comfortably in his daddy’s arm but who now also

sits still and silent

scarred

who we know will grow up this scene etched in his memory a cave painting of satirical savagery that will haunt him in his loneliness as he ages that will keep him awake at night force him drive him to a career as a midnight to dawn disc jockey of shocking proportions in the northern lake region near the canadian border pandering to anti-immigrant sympathies those who loathe the pasty skinned canadian interlopers who sneak down here to the land of milk and honey to the land of opportunity

to the home of the brave

to become one of god’s select

a fallen saul blinded by the expiring otariidae on his trip to damascus many years before a sinner who we know will grow up to seek desperately needed help from the easy high of cocaine

who we know will grow up to go from cocaine to rehab

from rehab to alcohol and nicotine and back to rehab

from rehab to jesus to crystal meth and back to rehab

from rehab to four day a week freudian analysis and ecstasy and enlightenment to wandering the land across the plains across the mountains across the desert clad only in a burlap robe and carrying a bowl to accept alms and morsels provided by the faithful

to wander through the crowds the committed we the hardly strictly devoted who believe in the father the son the doctor with a feather in his cap

we the black seals

we who are grateful we who are blessed in our stoned drunken glorious euphoric acid baked pod encapsulated within among amidst the multitude who gather in the meadow who gather together to celebrate to immerse ourselves

to listen learn participate and all that

Monday, September 19, 2011

Austin City Limits

it had not rained the mercury had not dropped below a hundred in forty days forty nights maybe more

god had wrought holy hell upon the landscape inflicted drought pestilence disease and fire on all that is this home to prairie dog coyote horny toad and fire ant

god had peered down upon wetback and redneck alike and she had declared a war of biblical proportions upon their

sinful sodomite souls

god from atop her mountain seared brown the grass the trees the bushes she boiled the lakes ponds and rivers fried chicken alive within their very own feathery coats sizzled bacon in the stye fricasseed the frogs as they tried to cross the road

just trying to get to the other side

a land so barren and wasted a little morsel of hell sliced off by satan and flipped out of the frying pan into the fire god herself ignores the locals their selfish solicitation for relief in the form of self-righteous pleas for salvation god herself won’t even bother to squat and dribble on this parched scrub that is

texas

the corn don’t grow
the beans don’t grow
the cotton don’t grow
the watermelons they all dried up

a people so guilty of letting loose a pox upon the world a people who threaten to do so again such hook ‘em horns hubris such a land lacking humility

texas

and from such a miserable fuck of a place from the hearts the souls the tickling tongues of such a miserable fuck of a people comes some of the simplest songs of the finest melodies and for such beautiful music we flew into austin from san francisco pulling behind us a bucket of fog to spread generously upon their toasty white bread selves

we circled round and round dipping our long-haired beatnik flower child ladle into the bucket dear liza dear liza drizzling drops of lecherousness lust and love doing our best

our profound earnest best

to douse or at least calm the contempt that just seems to simmer beneath this griddle that seems to keep alive these fires of

i have
you don’t

we sky sailed down from the heavens mary poppins’d from parasols of hope dropping into the fray dropping into the cauldron double doubled toiled and troubled hopping skipping through the security gates manned by uniformed officers of the law and corporate managers of commerce sporting white starched short sleeved shirts skinny ties and heavy duty industrial strength bold black buddy holly glasses

both quoting heavily from the book of revelations

our kind california green bud nestled safely though a bit uncomfortably in body cavities best not described our own attitudes worn callously on our sleeves

my own personal jesus lifting her skirt and climbing up upon the cross i bear a cunt so sweet as to be the honey in my tea the ginger in my ale the doctor in my pepper the branch with my bourbon

following the music around from stage to stage finding shelter in the shade beneath the spread of the live oak when we could

dust dancing inside the intensity of the rays of life of lies when we could stand to be in the kitchen when we could stand the heat

she swung her hips full and inviting inside a hula hoop as the tall negroe man with a borrowed artsy monicker rapped rhyme and verse her arms raised above her head her breasts bobbing on the downbeat

she strutted across in front of me wearing hot pants halter top and cowgirl boots

she leaned over in front of me showing off luscious globes of joy

she stood in the middle of the field her court jesters standing around her surrounding her shaking bottles of water on her her hair her blond silky smooth shock of hair braided and dreaded down a pale sister in wolf’s clothing

she wiggled those little piggies in the dirt this one to market this one staying home this one eating barbecue at stubbs this one having a vegan meal along with the hippies down on fifth street and this one taking a wee wee on my leg in the shower

goddamn she gets my goat
goddamn what a goatfuck
goddamn goddamn

and i sat in my dee fucking luxe folding chair complete with headrest and cupholder tapping my foot like i had the shaky leg tapping my fingers on the aluminum framing keeping a beat with the drummer from social distortion trying to keep up with the beat laid down by naz and damian walking the boogie strut down in the ghetto with stevie trying to weave in and out of the gomez riff spinning around with pretty lights climbing crescendo with cee lo occasionally reaching into my pockets discretely pulling out a baggy of kind green love bud stuffing my pipe looking around for big blue meanies packing heat and lifestyle opinion

flick flicking

my little green bic belying the burn ban waving wafts of godbreath swarming my soul cleaning out small pockets of memory with a feathery duster doling out dopamine by the dram

i am a priest of the sacrament my incense swinging from spice balls on a chain my manhood swinging long and low on a mood

wagging my finger in two four time a little tsk here a little tsk there

waving my cock like fucking excalibur like a fucking divining rod wandering through and over the fields hill and dale beseeching the gods for respite and by the third day the clouds they all bunched up held their breath until their cheeks turned black

oh sinners let’s go down
down to the river to pray

and by the third day she relaxed let loose her kundalini sprinkled her holiness upon us all upstanding citizens and sinners alike

and by the third day the masses looked heavenward intentions of impetration in their eyes in their dust ridden nostrils arms outstretched remorse dripping from armpits raw and aromatic

and still they point at

them

yes the them that are not us

so willing to sacrifice fresh blood so willing to set to the stake the souls of the innocent so willing to toss them all into the lion’s den so willing to clip sam phillips of his hair

j’accuse motherfucker

divert the attention of the gods the old spiritual bait and switch rock and roll and hip and hop just ain’t enough to cleanse the spirit just ain’t enough to send them to rehab

we those who are not texans true tejanos are nothing but faggots and fornicators tatted and tainted pierced and pissing our pants

we are driven outside of the

austin city limits they squeeze us in by the third day they close in by the third day austin city limits they just seem so small and

yes

limiting

by the third day we climb back in that jet plane don’t know when we’ll be back again

and all that

Saturday, September 17, 2011

metro park

fucking pigeons

winged rats

they don’t give a fuck they don’t give a flying fuck they dance in the street pecking at shit bug shit bug guts mice tails and ears they dance in the street daring the cabs in line to run them over waiting til that last second that urban version of chicken

no orthogonal pun intended

before either the cabbie can step on his brakes or swerve or interrupt his otherwise fairly calm and normal vector through the metro park train station looking for his own pigeon

or it this pigeon it flutters up and away free and clear not a scratch not even a drop of sweat on its brow

how can that fat feathered fuck get up and out of there out of the cabbie space that space that rapidly evolves from asphalt black to cabbie yellow that is the cavalry crossing the bend of the river at wounded knee

how can it escape so quickly

there must be some life lesson lurking about

something deep

the clashing of grand universal ideas of cultures lost in some fathomless history only to rise up as some new age post hippie tie dye fad complete with crystals tarot cards and the dried bones of road kill rodents flipped with the full faith and foreplay afforded such sacraments onto the dusty ground

well she turned me into a newt

and there must be some kind of life lesson here but maybe i’m just a pigeon

not really giving one flying fuck either

i’m down with a good game of chicken and don’t you know i’d love to

flip fly float through the air drop a load at will on any windshield

or hell

even better

on some hipster’s chapeau du pork pie

i do oh i do especially want to splatter some smooth silky chunks on one of those gay-ass lavender lids some skinny jean wearing ben davis shirt sporting shaggy sans scoobee doo glancing up just as i dive bomb down all kamikaze screeching claws all stretched forward like i’m some sort of renegade redtail hawk

pulling up just as he looks up

bomb doors open bombs away load glances lavender lid brim pork pie purple done got spotty

i loop-de-loop to the top of a telephone pole

watching

harry hipster hands wiping at his face lips moving murmuring something foreign and vain betty faux beatnik his soon to be ex-girlfriend

she laughs

but i’m just a schmuck on a bench at the metro park train station somewhere in new jersey somewhere between newark and philadelphia only minutes before i had been sailing along sitting comfortably in my first class seat on the amtrak acela

the conductor dude seeped simmered and boiled in his deep jamaican accent he says

ticket please

i hand him the ticket the one that the guy in newark sitting behind the bullet proof glass that transparent wall that keeps me from him and him from me the guy in this uniform complete with plastic identification badge hanging around his neck on a red plastic lanyard that looked

perhaps because i had just spent five very brownie stoned hours on an airplane from san francisco to newark

strangely like a twizzler

tickets that this amtrak amboy had given me had slid through that little scooped out plexiglass hole

that i had given to my responsible rastafarian requestor his dreds hanging low swinging low beneath his conductor’s cap who said all sing song hey brother man maybe you got other tickets these no good these for different train

and i shrug and he shrugs

and at the next stop the metro park train station stop a sweet little suburban stye with lovely shops and green leafed trees and jersey shore refugees japped out moneypennies lifting their lifted mugs up from behind the wheels of black mercedes and lexi lined up to pick up the bread winner to provide carriage home for lord and master for he who brings home the bacon

and at the next stop the metro park train station stop i exit stage left grumbling and cursing and embarrassed

to find a station agent adorned with accoutrement similar to his conducting cousin his amtrak associate who is also behind a glass wall that keeps him and his world just beyond the grudging grab of my jealous reach

who says

in his south philly finest tongue twisted up with ancestral gullah

he say

he shouldna done that why he do that he shouldna done that

and i shrug and he shrugs hands me another ticket tells me informs me the next train comes along at eight thirty four i look up at the

clock that cannot be wrong the cocksure chronograph passed down from god herself

and see that it’s only seven oh two

and i stumble around the mini terminal all antiseptic with its red brick tile and post-eighties ergonomically enhanced anti-recline plastic benches i am baffled and bounced between buying gas station coffee and a sara lee cellophane wrapped blueberry muffin from the faux seven eleven only three dollars fifty three cents or a bag of roasted nuts gathered in peaceful coexistence with the amazonian rainforest and all its godly creatures and an aseptic container of caribbean coconut water from the gourmet yes gourmet said so in big orange letters coffee place that had only just now completed the end of day scrub down of its big ass brass brought over from italy on a clipper ship espresso maker and was no longer serving coffee

i finally bite the hook that is baited and set in liberal yuppie school that preaches from pulpits on high that nothing that cost less than five dollars can possibly be good for me i need colon cleansing i need my guilt assuaged i desperately require reminding that i am of the uber hip cool

i mean just naturally so

and i fork over the ten and receive a few coins of change and then wiggle then wander out of the terminal out of the station into a little plaza between track and parking lot a lovely little clearing with a ribbon of road looping through

kiss and ride and taxi cabs and black lincoln town cars and black lincoln navigators

and a couple of benches beneath the couple of trees standing watch hessian mercenaries imported by landscape architects working for

the man

the city fathers whose dual purpose is to increase property values and warn the riffraff to keep away

unless of course they’ve come to town to clean in and around the neat little brick houses and their environs

and i claim my bench as dusk dabs its brush across the sky reds and oranges backdrop for black cotton balls bobbing on their threads tied tethered to old man moon

a sky strapped gulliver

he wants to leave her but he just can’t pull himself away

and i claim my bench beneath the tree stretch my arms wide settle back into the wooden slats

they give a little just a little

open myself up to all that metro park has to offer i let her grab me by the hair and assume a dictatorial position over me she has her way with me

as the pigeons they puff and peck the pebbles pushing them across the pockmarked pavement

prudently

preciously

permissively

and the clock it ticks it tocks i need the big hand to click off ninety some jumps around and around i got time i got nothing but time such a modern world in which we live such an era one can wake up on monday morning in san francisco go grab a cuppa

and a few hours later and our hero he is in some town in new jersey trying to make his way to philadelphia

just like old ben franklin i wonder if before he decided upon immortality atop that building in the city of brotherly love if perhaps he too had sat upon a bench in metro park

and a cab driver wearing a turban baggy polyester pants and sensible shoes walks up and down the sidewalk in front of me he walks down to the corner of one end of the sidewalk he turns around he walks up to the corner on the other end of the sidewalk maybe a total of thirty forty yards

i ask him if he’s counting laps if he perhaps needs a trusty sidekick to click them off as he walks back and forth

to and fro

and he smiles he says from beneath a full beard he says no he says no thanks he says he’s just stretching his legs he’s in a cab all day he’s just keeping it real he asks me if he can drive me some place

me i smile i say from cheeks smooth but for a smattering of whiskers pretending to be a five o’clock shadow i say no i say no thanks i say i’m just waiting for my train i’m enjoying the evening i’m not in any hurry

and so we leave it at that and on the next couple of laps he glances over and smiles and nods and smiles but after a few more passes he doesn’t notice me any more and i don’t really notice him any more and we’re simply background for one another

a meditative meme

and i quietly slide a joint from my pocket and flip open the lighter the engraved zippo given to me on my birthday by man pete

been walking god’s green earth for fifty plus years and i know what from what

and the zippo flame it ignores the slight breeze while i inhale the sugary smoke alongside new jersey fresh air i release it moments later my lips tickling the exhalation massaging the vapors to take shape to take form

a ring of course

and a bunny and a chipmunk

and a bag of pretzels

and every once in a while a group of people bursts from the terminal a stream really of those coming from points north or south cell phones to ears briefcases in hand or backpack on one shoulder or another they dissipate into the parking lot the town cars the cabs the awaiting mercedes or lexus

a bustling of activity and languages varied and accented that peaks then ebbs into the relative silence that slowly wipes across the palette that is my world tonight

and this kid this young adult a teenager with baggy jeans exposing boxer shorts a tee shirt adorned with some faded logo he appears in one of the bustles though i don’t really think he came from the terminal but from some other point of ingress i notice him wandering around talking briefly to one or another random adult

his hands in his pockets his shoulders scrunched up around his neck as if he is warding off a chill that can’t that couldn’t actually be

and as this pod of commuters dissolves into stillness he is left standing there in the middle of the plaza looking around slowly looking around

he chats up a young black woman maybe she’s a teen maybe older i can’t tell she talks to him for a minute or two then slowly shakes her head and disappears into the parking deck

and then he spots me sitting on my bench my ignored joint extinguished from lack of attention and dangling from my fingers he strolls my way and i get this sinking feeling

i am to be driven from observer to participant from spectator to player

and he sits on the opposite end of my bench the bench i had only just claimed as my own he leans forward elbows on thighs head in hands and i glance over and he glances my way

and he asks me if i have a cigarette and i say no and he says thanks anyway and i ask him how it’s going tonight and he says it’s going ok and i ask him where he’s headed and he says he doesn’t know he asks me hey how far is trenton he needs to get to trenton he has a place to stay in trenton

and i say i don’t really know can’t be that far probably too far to walk though

he says he’s in some program something called youth services they have a place for him to stay if only he gets to trenton and we talk for a while about school about how hard it is about work how hard it is to find a job for the summer we talk about the phillies and how good they are about the mets and what a joke they are

he tells me he needs to call his mom he tells me he hasn’t eaten today

my radar goes up my spidey senses tingle i don’t want to be the traveling rube i want to be street smart and cool i want to be hip and hep and cold and calculating i live in the city i’ve heard every story i’ve heard the lines before i’ve walked through the haight in san francisco where all the wannabe punks come in from outer suburbia to sit on the sidewalk and bum bills and coins

i don’t want to be the pigeon from out of state

but

yeah there’s a but

it’s not like some overwhelming wave of sympathy overcame me it’s not like some elitist guilt poked me in the liver it’s not not like jesus sat on my shoulder and whispered in my ear

more like just one of those things that i’m just supposed to do i walk him back into the terminal i offer to buy him some amazonian nuts but he asks if he can instead opt for a muffin and soda

like it was some mcdonalds happy meal hiding a cute little toy promoting some recent movie or saturday morning cartoon

and i buy him a ticket to trenton and give him some spending money

and i watch him smile i hear him say thanks i watch him bound up the steps to the tracks two steps at a time the energy of youth carrying him up to catch the train as it pulls into metro park

and then he is gone passing from sight dissolving into the crowd that exits the train

that exits my metro park world and all that

Friday, September 2, 2011

Wake Up Call

down down it bounds the world it bounces around about through this space this darkness this void like some super ball thrown off the garage roof off the drive up up into the sky above crashing down surprising us all with each and every direction

just as i am today surprised with each and every erection

such a blessing for such a messing

what are the odds who would have thought who could have imagined

heh not me

crawling from an unshared bed glancing back over my shoulder just in case hey it happens just as the world yeah it happens but there is love hey there is love it’s simply silent this morning this dawning of a new day

cock still hard can’t remember the dream can’t remember the object of my yearning i’m sure my intentions were honorable i’m sure my furtive frolicking fancy fucked me with nothing but love lust longing

desire

before sucking me dry

a quietude broken by the push of a button a familiar unnamed voice what the fuck ever happened to bob edwards when did he leave a stumble upon arthritic feet to stand before the toilet hang cock and piss glancing out the window

witness the whispering of foggy fingers frottaging up against the walls even the fucking clouds get a little somethin’ somethin’ this morning

a shake a shiver a flush a whoosh a swirl a rinse a splash of cool water on the face a glancing a lingering in the mirror hands on the edges of the sink holding myself up holding my own gaze studying looking deeply man to man eye to eye beneath the dark brown beneath the blackness of the edges eyelashes long and thick like they belong to some chick eyebrows threatening bushiness if left untended beard whiskers merely pretending coarsely coming around sparsely sprouting in patches like a backyard lawn littered with atomic doggy pee spots

i shake my head hair flies jowls jiggle and i spit

my image asking why

i have no answer and i shrug

down the hallway the nip of the hardwood floor comforts my sore soles that carry me into the kitchen tip toeing from wood to tile changes the chill only by a couple of cool degrees the coffee grinder grates my nerves the scent grants serenity calms the nerves heightens the senses with raised eyebrows piques my picadilly even before a single drop drips touches to tongue

inhale deeply

breathe

in the gurgling espresso atop the stove

a demitasse pinkie extended purple mountains majesty fruited plains discussed on the radio that same strangely familiar eerily strange voice that is not bob edwards follows

i don’t like the quiet who stole the noise where is the click click shuffle shuffle giggle gaggle yelling screaming j’accuse leggo my eggo they were all here not so long ago

i look out the window demitasse in hand a trickle of fog slides down the glass down my cheek the steady grumble of the ocean my own personal white noise machine massages the edges of the caffeine bursting through my veins

addictions are so subtle

they start with a touch a greeting a grin a giggle a chocolate bar and a jar of peanut butter handcuffs and candy valentines tangerines and tongue

addictions are so subtle

they never end they just slow down to an itch they never end they just scratch at the screen they just jiggle the handle

who will be my pocahontas save me from this sword hanging over my neck

don’t you know i’ve got you under my skin sugar i’ve got you deep in the heart of me so deep in my heart that you’re really a part of me i’ve got you under my skin

and i’m left doing the two step with nary a transylvanian transvestite transexual tagging about no tantalizing tart with an adam’s apple to twirl about one two three one two three

no one with whom to tiptoe through the tulips i just want to tiptoe through the tulips

and the coffee works its magic the bowels flutter morning gas the porcelain calls beckons i oblige the dude abides morning ritual overcomes any thoughts of procrastination immediate gratification always rules over distant goals ah the dignity of regularity

addictions are so subtle but goddamn i do love a good morning shit

plop plop fizz fizz oh what a relief it is take me to the river the warmth of the shower pours over me scrub a dub dub a little morning soapy stroke just to let big john henry know the desire is still there that i’m not forgetting about him just a tease i whisper i suggest hey don’t worry you’ll get yours hey diddle diddle a cat a fiddle a cow a moon a bag of day glo gummy worms a towel stolen from marriott buffing my back and ass a q-tip whisked out of a sweet pewter container stolen from a marriott

sit naked on the couch the sun does the morse code jitter through the windows fighting the fog sit down on the couch decode the message while i grind a bud and roll a joint on a silver pewter tray stolen from marriott slip the phattie behind my ear shred a couple more buds roll a couple more jays place them in a handy dandy anti airport detector plastic case that our hero dug out of a box of lucky charms collect all five colors

jeans black tee shirt boots

throw my laptop into my bag grab my suitcase packed the night before

clomp down the steps

ready for the road and all that







Thursday, August 25, 2011

give me your dirty love

give me your dirty love just like your mamma make that little poodle do

beautiful post earthquake gotham all awash in blue sky dabbed with puffy cotton clouds like the dark side of some teenage girl poetry with all the cute things young and old wearing as little as possible and yet still staying six steps ahead of the fashionista polizei one two cha cha cha

drinks at rockefeller center sitting at the bar with television wannabe and tourist drinking rye and soda alongside comrades who are as faux serious i we all wear this mask of seriousness no matter if it is work or fun because goddamn it we're fucking focused on our fun goddamn it can't have fun unless it's big over the top i'm talking vegas baby the definition of fun

remember when remember when

it's all about the story got to have story if you have no story you've had no fun

period

it’s laid out all neat and pretty in the postmodern man book of rules

and the women at the bar they stare intently into the eyes of their fellow women themselves talking in a serious manner don’t know if it’s mimicry don’t know if they have their own book of rules don’t know don’t know

woman thou art a mystery to me i love you so i worship the power the say thee has over me

and drunken goodbyes laden with mutual admiration and stumbled shuffles take our hero down fiftieth street across madison and park to lexington the mellow ganjaesque coating the throat a phattie stroll through the evening lights that comprise midtown

slipping into the room into bed toying with thoughts contemplating considering a bedtime stroke a midnight masturbation propped up through some pornographic eyelid theater but the mind is distracted clouded by wandering lingering fading desire and i doze fall asleep

only to arise with the sun i am my own dawn

shit shower shave

head to penn station amidst crowds of heads down people as if this indeed is their daily prayer one two three four forgive me father please allow me the freedom to fuck my neighbor it's a zero sum world

i don't get unless she don’t get

roll the dice box cars move me around the board take a ride on the reading railroad if i pass go

line broke monkey got choked we all lived together on a little rowboat

currents of people to and fro dunkin’ donuts tim hortons very serious official soldiers of the realm german shepherds sporting holsters and six shooters on their haunches there to give it all for their masters who wear uniforms dark blue with gold celebration and long black batons hanging from batman style utility belts

holy scowl caped crusader how will we this time rescue gotham from the clutches of albert kayda

their helmets strapped to chin as they stand tall and stiff like proud circumcised cocks titillating the freshly douched suburban housewives post-divorce city jobs in hand chastity belts popped open swinging wide and free nervous giggles muffled by tom carvelle ice cream sublimation to ward off the weight of responsibility known but never previously considered theirs

suitcases and briefcases and flip flops and halter tops and belly button rings and oh so long legs shaved shined and tanned up into beneath skirts of mystery and denial panties of undetermined color pattern and material meh matters not my granddaddy says it’s all pink on the inside

and the board click click clicks a slot machine matching tracks with destination a melodious mechanical messaging amidst a sea of silent smart phones being nurtured like some angry starving infantile tamagotchi all aware of the fact that if they set it down for even a minute some distant idea concept opportunity concept may die a slow and lonely death

nothing worse than being left out of the loop

conductor sings all aboard wanders the aisle collecting tickets punching holes in some mysterious yet ancient pattern ritualizing one’s mass transit experience enabling the next priest that floats down the aisle providing communion to read translate and understand the message

that will be passed down from generation to generation along with millions of other tidbits of transportational transcendence delivered to saint peter the scrivener who dutifully logs them into individual books of life

collect my two hundred dollars collect my collective insanity on the third day let me arise from the dead up the escalator to the beaux arts lobby of the thirtieth street station philadelphia freedom ben franklin and william penn bless his quaking heart

to the cab line fuck fuck fuck it’s fucking raining early signs of irene yet to come into the cab to the restaurant pulling the prerequisite rollerbag and some nouveaux pseudo hipster bag serving as briefcase but what looks more like the fucking beach sac carried by my mother on panama city beaches in nineteen seventy two check in tip the hot chick in the simple black dress and sweet uplifting cleavage that i swear to god on high looked right at me

grinned and winked

and said yes they spoke they said to me oh kay buddy you’ve had enough move on

meet up with my man mickey marketer and our customer hey hey how’s the world how’s the wife how’re the kids how was vacation yeah that part of carolina it’s pretty nice we chit we chat we dance the social dance we hold hands in that secret way swear fiduciary loyalty to one another how much this much how about a little less how about a little more we both know there’s a spot there’s a sweet spot where this lotto ball will land gonna be one or the other either one is as good as the other the only reason we care the only reason we allow it to bounce is the pure ritual passed down from father to son throughout the millenniums it may be more processed it may be more refined it may be more vicious but it’s the native dance nonetheless

and we break bread and sup we are modern men yes indeed we are men wearing ties and charcoal suits and cufflinks and sharp plastic modern eyeware and as modern men we no longer drink martinis as did our forefathers nay we sip on iced teas or arnold palmers and post lunch cappuccinos said lunch which consists of gazpacho and an organic salad of mixed greens with shavings of some exotic dry italian cheese and we can exist on such rabbit fare and keep our cocks strong and proud because

we are postmodern men

and as postmodern men we shake hands with a spartan hug and an earnest spoken desire to a faith that we will see other again soon

and out to the plaza in the misty rain to hail a cab and these two cabbies stop at the same time their respective drivers both hopping out of the car both hailing me to come to their cab it’s cleaner he’s a better driver he knows the city he doesn’t know the city then they start to yell at each other in a tongue that i do not understand yet i find vaguely comforting in that from the roots redneck ancestry from deep within poking its head up like some stupid fucking turkey in a rainstom some bubba sniffing out chanting fight fight fight i finally simply walk over to one throw my suitcase into the trunk hop in the back my driver giving some foreign gesture to the other driver i believe it is the universal international self-congratulatory self-proclaiming sign for so hey cocksucker take that and shove it up your sorry loser ass

or something to that effect

and we me and my most recent provider of four wheel zim zoom zip through the drops of satanic acid rain up market street to the station

thirtieth street station philadelphia pee aa this cavernous granite fortress built upon columns of the legs of zeus himself marble floors sets of long wooden church pews facing each other in some postmodern podinal new age traveler’s intimate quite quaker group confessional we say absolutely nothing to each other perhaps a polite excuse me pardon me but we do gaze upon one another our eyes wander from pair to pair mutual body scans appreciative yet rarely rude or offensive our eyes they do catch and hold while we talk to someone else on our mobiles

there must be some sort of cosmic energy power surge such crowdsourced transcendental transformation soulful transmogrification multiplied repeated

lather rinse repeat

cycling through across the modern communication network over and over again and again

i believe we are unconsciously raising our mutual respective consciousnesses in a chaotic bursty spiral highway fraught with all sorts of rotted bridges beneath which live ugly ego trolls weak guardrails trap doors and winged goblins which swoop down to grab and whisk away your toto a highway headed to some global self awareness

and we don’t even give a flying jonathan livingston seagull fuck

nor should we give me one good reason why we should

and this huge fucking bronze art deco aztec motherfucker of a warrior god statue stands at one end overlooking the cathedralesque lobby

and it’s as if he our warrior chieftan god had waved his castro street buffed out muscular arms swept his eagle’s wings over the crowd and laid down the law

there will be calm there will be order

and it just seems it just feels that this place this downtown train station hub of humanity is so much more orderly than the chaos the confusion of the airport in all its depersonalized we are all part of the machine run amok converse crowdsourced energy in total disarray with an utter disregard for all others such that it causes an implosion of the collective soul into some pit of darkness

quickly my son fly through quickly hold on to your balls and jump through quickly to the other side

the yen the yang of the human conveyor belt

and on the shuttle from the train station to the airport i share a compartment with a large hassidic family a schlumpy bearded dad a soon to be schlumpy oddly similar mini-me version son complete with whispery dark beard and maybe six kids and a mom and there was this ten year old girl and i envied the simplicity of her future i mean there are six hundred thirteen laws if you can keep up with making sure you are following all these rules then hey ain’t no time for such shenanigans as an idle mind may fall prey to i mean such innocence of a child gently molded into what is what has been and what will always be

is it elitist to envy the simple needs of the peasants

but then i iook at her and feel a sorrow that touches me oh so slightly touches a sadness inside her hair such beautiful brown blonde hair that one day she too as her mother does as her grandmother did that one day she too will crop her hair shave her head and wear a wig

woman cover thy shame before god

and the shuttle pulls up to the terminal and they the righteous rugrats go scattering off the car cute little roly poly’s swarming and then dissipating into the crowd spatterings of crushed iced dribbled dropped plopped into a warm coke

i head in the opposite direction down beneath to the lower floor outside and across the street one last breath of the terrestrial ether through the parking lot my own personal club rasta where i must get righteous with jah before shutting myself into that aluminum tubular goddess dildo trembling through space and time

a zip of the zippo flame flips floats flutters touches the tip of the toke sending smoke and symbolism through the ganja delivery system into lung building courage and when it is of such an appropriate level i meander through xray and security apparati who pray for my soul and my safety they are our first line of defense they are mercenary to none loyal to the common cause the one true path

and I slip into my phat fat seat up front where the lovely waitress in short skirt and high heels and pearls hands me a warm chocolate chip cookie with a stepford wife grin and an implied suggestion of consummate cock worship service in the forward toilet

and i slip into a cannabis coma whilst watching the latest action super hero summer blockbuster and drift off thinking of german deserts deep nebraska pineapple upside down cake lip smacking goodness twirling of dreams and tongue dozing in out eyes open closed

whilst witnessing the setting sun cast a glow across the western skies I am my own sunset

i gaze upon all that i can see from here to there and back again and i know that it is good and i know that it is all that


Sunday, July 3, 2011

Jesup, part the twentieth

well into the evening atlanta evening maybe midnightish early summer late spring this sky these clouds these wispy shadows that hang between the stars like marionettish buzzards waiting to feast on our rotting carrion dreams their puppeteers our gods sighing deeply a resigned june heaviness

whispering hoarsely

a sultry weight refusing to move ignoring the slight barely noticeable breeze that flutters the fresh newly born green oak leaves

under which gathered ron johnson and his friends his cohorts his partners in crime sitting about in begged borrowed stolen chairs from the dorm from dobbs hall sitting about in chairs in the little courtyard beneath the ancient oak dripping with spanish moss all stereotypically southern in its setting before and above the slabs of weather worn italian marble itself peppered with speckles and freckles of moss and shoots of crabgrass

slapping at the gnats and mosquitos and moths that flitted in out about the two lamplights at the edge and in either corner of the courtyard rubbing at eyes ears and nostrils when one of the little fuckers manages to find its way through the defenses

fists to the air middle fingers pointed to the lamplight that is their sun the center of their universe screaming drat you red baron as they kamikaze into human orifices

it is the last night of school the last night of their first year their freshman year at that fine institution of higher learning that is emory university that sits up on its hill among all its ivy-clad libraries and coca cola finery

idyllic

the moon large and bright over the far buildings a cocktease of summer hope and expectation crushed like the dewless lawn twixt their toes

amidst the quiet of the evening

an occasional hey the train that was fucking funny as hell

what the fuck were you thinking

hey pass that over here

hey whoa hey whoa hey wow

hey saw you sneaking out of suzanne’s room last night you better hope that fucking es aa ee of a boyfriend don’t find out

hey what you doing this summer well me and steve we’re going to europe going to bang around how about you dunno i think i got a job downtown wall street my dad’s firm

amidst the quiet of the evening

occasionally someone would go walking by from the sidewalk into the dorm or out of the dorm onto the sidewalk a giggle a chuckle once a sob from a sweet coed walking away from dobbs arms crossed beneath her breasts suspended in the gentle sling formed by her halter top her chin down bobbing between caught breaths long straight hair hanging low hiding her face

the glow of a joint passes around the circle of chairs an inadvertent ring surrounding an imaginary firepit a gravitational pull sufficient enough to keep them tight the centrifugal force of their spinning heads keeping them from falling away into the nighttime confusion

that chaos that upon the morrow will be their world

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Jesup, part the nineteenth, courthouse

the click the clack of high heels against marble floor echoed up through the stairwell and down the hallway love and rockets in any other world but this morning as all three heads turn ron johnson’s his momma’s his daddy’s their heads all turn at once they know it is their aunt betty and his lawyer the only woman lawyer in jesup aunt betty she plays bridge with her on wednesday evenings over at the country club

aunt betty wearing that purple dress suit matching little bitty perched on hat the outfit she’s been wearing to church this summer ron johnson he wonders like he always wonders just where in sam hill his aunt betty finds these things

probably the same place his attorney finds hers she miss wilma watkins a graduate of mercer university and mercer university law school over in macon back before otis redding back before duane allman maybe back when ray charles miss wilma watkins she who is all done up in this post retro marlo thomas that girl break loose be free in a man’s world bright blue with black trim and ron johnson he swears to god that same fucking hat that she that girl tossed to the wind on her tee eve show

and she carries a brief case and is listening to aunt betty go on about something she miss wilma she has a pensive look on her face she isn’t really saying anything and they walk up to the bench and ron johnson and his momma and his daddy they stand up to greet them and there’s the niceties the how do you do yes it’s warm out how’s your father miss wilma he’s fine thank you but listen

we need to talk

and there’s this scene change the music it changes maybe it had been changing all along just too subtly for ron johnson to notice but now there’s a harp moaning long and slow and the hooting of an owl

where’s the owl

it’s morning the sun it shines

fuck

how can it be so bright on such a day

and the camera it swings wide and slowly it pans circling the five of them as they come together they talk miss wilma she talks she’s talking to ron johnson’s daddy to ron johnson’s momma she’s telling them things judge’s decision judge’s offer she’s answering questions aunt betty she’s asking maybe she’s saying aunt betty she says

that’s it

ron johnson’s daddy he’s nodding his head

miss wilma she talks she answers questions but she’s looking at ron johnson but she is answering ron johnson’s momma’s question yes i know it’s just ron he’s eighteen sally well she’s seventeen yes i know no i don’t know why the judge is so upset well yes ok yes you’re right i guess i do know why the judge is so upset but

it’s georgia law

ron johnson hell he has always wanted to be a lawyer he has always wanted to be clarence darrow he has always been so fucking ready to inherit the wind to lift the sword of righteousness like scout’s daddy

yeah just like scout’s daddy mister atticus finch

an’ i asked her what and she said to jus' step on the chair yonder an' git that box down from on top of the chifforobe

she said she'd never kissed a grown man before an' she might as well kiss me she says for me to kiss her back

the camera it slowly spins mouths move tongues tatter eyes lift lips go to tight smiles the heads nod the shoulders shrug a tear runs down his momma’s cheek ron johnson’s daddy his face turns angry red

an angry red

grabbing his shotgun out of the closet red his momma trying to reason with him aubrey now aubrey the shell pumping into the chamber ron johnson he’s standing in the doorway shorts and tee shirt his face fresh from a good cry curious now earlier

that dog had coming running through the yard just when ron johnson all of four years old had coming bursting out the screen door wearing his brand new pee eff flyers soaring off the porch like the kid in the cartoon landing right in front of where that unlucky fucking dog was running scaring the hell out of both ron johnson and the mangy mutt that didn’t really belong in the neighborhood he belonged to one of the black boys who cut the grass

mangy mutt snapped at ron johnson getting him a piece of ron johnson’s ass cheek right when ron johnson’s daddy was pulling up into the driveway and ron johnson he kept running over toward his daddy the mangy mutt snapping at him running behind and ron johnson his daddy he stepped in front of that dog and yelled and that mangy mutt he high tailed it back the other direction with a yelp and a scream and ron johnson he grabbed his daddy’s leg and ron johnson his daddy picked him up and brought him inside ron johnson moaning and crying and sobbing like only his four year old self knew how and ron johnson his daddy he handed him to his momma and walked back to the bedroom and ron johnson his momma she put him down with a pat on the head and followed her husband and ron johnson he followed his momma

and watched in the doorway as his momma looked up at his daddy her hands lightly touching his arm that held the shotgun she saying please aubrey

and the angry red it drained from ron johnson’s daddy’s face it slowly went back to his ruddy tanned puss with the afternoon shadow and he pumped the shell out of the gun and put them both back into the closet closed the door and his momma she took ron johnson’s hand led him back to the bathroom to look him over

teeth didn’t go through his shorts

and ron johnson his daddy’s face turns an angry red and his eyes they glare down and through at miss wilma he’s not looking at miss wilma he’s looking through miss wilma he’s looking through miss wilma and on into his dark place and his arms are crossed and tight and ron johnson his momma with the tear running down her cheek places her hand on his daddy’s arm

the one closest to her

lightly

and ron johnson his daddy he looks down and ron johnson his momma she looks up she gently she softly tops him from the bottom the blood it drains it slowly drains his face it slowly goes back to that tanned ruddy stoicism he puts the shotgun back in the closet

and the music it’s not there and the owl he’s gone and the voices they fade and the silence numbs him slowly suffocates ron johnson

he can’t breathe but he’s breathing fine he’s underwater and he can’t breathe and he’s breathing fine

and floating about are choices two choices weaving into one ear out the other bits leaving his mouth his mother his father his lawyer and for once his aunt betty she ain’t saying nothing she his aunt betty she’s just looking at him his father ron johnson his daddy he saying ron

son

there is no choice you just gotta go

his lawyer trying to lay it out all facts and figures she saying the judge no it’s not judge hopkins but you have to know that he is not a stranger to judge hopkins the judge he says you can either take three years in reidsville or you can join the army go down to the local induction center and join the army that’s three years too

or we can try to go to trial

and ron johnson the only bits really coming out of his mouth from his stomach deep down in his stomach burning a path up his esophagus his throat acidic verbiage of whoa whoa whoa bubbling up tres gravelly coarse river sand suspended sickly sour right behind the back of his tongue

the roman soldiers they gave him wine to drink mingled with gall and after tasting it he was unwilling to drink

and ron johnson his lawyer miss wilma she put a piece of paper on the bench there was a red ex at the bottom she gave ron johnson a pen and he leaned over

pen in hand

the paper it blurred it wiggled in the air like a gilligan island dream scene and ron johnson his eyes they watered heavy tears forming

but he did not blink

he did not blink and the tears they stayed until the dusty air floated by and took them away

and he took a deep breath and he signed his name his adult name right next to the red ex ronald samuel johnson

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Jesup, part the eighteenth, army men

and here is ron johnson his momma his daddy they’re walking down the corridor to visit with saint peter himself perched up on his barstool hunched over his scrivener's desk his beard tinged on the edges with splotches of blue black ink dripped shaken splattered a bottle of bourbon cork removed sitting half empty next to the thick large ledger from which he manages the fates of all those who enter who approach who come crawling in on fraying threads of hope never mind that he is

a love supreme

he is old he may forget to forgive us this day our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us

don’t you know by and by the bible beckons to ron johnson

it whispers the pages flutter softly in the breeze that seeps through the cracked window sills begs through and wraps itself around the ceiling fan that spins it round and round and round till it disperses sprinkles down to deep breaths desperate for the slight movement the slight disturbance to the stillness that suffocates

ron johnson he breathes deeply from beneath the white cotton sheet opens himself up to god

he resists at first but the bitch just overcomes overwhelms

and he simply rolls over takes her down from his bookshelf it's up there with all the other books he has he takes it down he likes the feel of the pages the way they flitter fly float paper so thin sometimes he thinks he could

as a last resort

in desperate times

jesus would understand don't you know

as a last resort he might

tear out a page from one of the lesser books maybe revelations or jeremiah roll himself a joint inhale some ink of the holy well kind green bud laced with peace love understanding and grace

and fire
and brimstone
and signs of the devil

a compass of things to come

yeah sometimes he thumbs through the bible this little bible the new king james version he goes straight for the gospels he digs the gospels he digs them most

the gospels sugar that's where it's at

the water to wine the loving of whores the raising of the dead the beatitudes

ah the beatitudes so simple so lovely

ron johnson he scratches his balls scratches his head asks himself where did we leave them behind under what burning bush did we sweep them away how did we go from blessed be the peacemakers to onward christian soldiers

ron johnson he don't understand it

he just wonders where else there is to go what else is there to do except maybe wrap barbed wire about his waist put rocks in his shoes lash himself in the darkness of his room at night oh to know the pain of jesus ron johnson he used to love him so where is she now

come to me jesus let me tell you let me tell you how i feel let me tell you about the stories i love the most

ron johnson he loves that one story that walking on the water thing it makes ron johnson a bit jealous a bit envious in that little kid wanting to have super powers that desire to wiggle his nose and make shit happen he wants that make it hap'n cap'n feeling yeah he wishes he could walk on water slip and slide and saunter and two step across the aquifer hip hop hydroponically have the water tickle his toes like the plushest green lawn on a springtime south georgia morning

blessed are the pure of heart for they shall see god

amen bless us all jesus

amen bless us all south georgia

aw lawdy lawdy way down in south georgia

water water everywhere
not a drop to drink
soil so rich beneath our feet
all we do is sink

blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom

ron johnson today this day walking before the judge he is indeed poor in spirit

ron johnson he sits on the bench outside the courtroom him momma on his left his daddy on his right he leans his head back he closes his eyes

oh sally what you do

oh sally where is your kingdom is this your kingdom

ron johnson his aunt betty his momma’s sister she who half raised him when his momma was working over at the hospital his aunt betty they were waiting for his aunt betty to come join them in the courtroom

for moral support for financial support

blessed are the poor in spirit

and she his aunt betty this is her kingdom he knows it’s her kingdom she rules her kingdom down here in this little part of south georgia where jesup is the county seat stuck right here in the middle of the county a confederate soldier a sentry standing guard in the middle of the town square protecting the citizenry from the angry hordes swarming from the north

and she ain't gonna have no blessings happen unless it come through her and this glorious morning

and there is aunt betty long ago she stands at the bottom of the stairs hands on her hips those broad hips those hips plumply plentiful soft and round motherly and matronly sporting a white apron an off-white apron exhibiting a long ago coffee stain a stain brown and splotchy and looking like a rippling rorschach test imagined by some early times sipping driver to be a dead armadillo splattered battered betwixt and about the yellow lines on the back road to the coast not far from the wayne county line run over seventy two times by thirty six cars all in a line on a tuesday morning funeral procession out to the family cemetery

she aunt betty she stands at the bottom of the stairs hands on her hips looking up at ron johnson he’s at the top of the stairs he’s holding a big old cardboard box he’s got a crossman pump action pellet gun and a bolt action twenty two rifle slung over his shoulder cousin jimmy he's standing behind him he's holding a double barrel twenty gauge shotgun and a satchel full of shells and pellets and packs of matches and a big can of lighter fluid

it's a july morning

of ron johnson’s twelfth summer jimmy he's had four more than ron

she ron’s aunt betty his cousin jimmy’s mom she stands at the bottom of the stairs hands on her hips looking up at them she's blocking their way they have no choice but to listen to what she has to say

she ron’s aunt betty she always got something to say the only time ron ain't seen his aunt betty talking she be sleeping in that big old brass bed holding court in the morning hours or in that big old fluffy chaise with the tee vee section of the newspaper folded in her lap the lip stick stained coffee cup on the table next to the lamp

his aunt betty ron johnson’s aunt betty she stands at the bottom of the stairs her hands on her hips she says taking a deep breath that causes her to shiver just a little bit a shiver and shake from her toes to her upper lip her fatty fabric rolling in that undulating way like the fans do at the football stadium standing up sitting down doing the wave she says taking that deep breath drawn from the depths of her pre-diabetic state

she says

standing at the bottom of the stairs her hands on her hips she says james robert where in the sam hill do you think you're going

ron johnson he’s holding a box a big ol box bigger than his twelve year old arms can manage a roman candle poking its tubular presence out into the world sniffing the air like a puppy crawling out from beneath the bed after peeing on mom's new persian rug its wet little nose sniffing for safety looking for love

hell ain’t everyone

several strings of firecrackers flowing up and out bunches of bottle rockets all rubber banded together like stalks of broccoli at the piggly wiggly the rattle rattle shake shake of plastic army men tanks cannons and assorted replicas of violent childhood dreams hundreds of grey and green soldiers posed in positions varied and vericose

each step carefully taken down toward auntie gestapo

she who imprisons and tortures her children with saccharin permissiveness with blissful ignorance with what she don't know can't harm her position within the community can't take away her seat at the bridge table can't embarrass her with idle gossip poolside at the club who tortures them with the blessed sanctity of deep down not really giving a shit because she can't because she lost the battle years ago because the south georgia seventies swept over her in a tsunami she can't get used to that offers no possibility of solace

and ron johnson he walks timidly down the steps toward aunt betty as timidly as jimmy is cocky the son who long ago learned to shine on mom and dad a cornfed eddie haskel taken to shuck and jive well before it had ever drifted out of the hood and down to a grand greasy haired wiggerdom of country fried meth addicts

slowly ron johnson he turns walking timidly down the steps step by step inch by inch sliding past aunt betty mumbling good morning aunt betty she looking down at him tsk tsk'ing saying you eat breakfast ronnie yes ma'am aunt betty she watching him slide on by looking over her shoulder tsk tsk'ing saying what'd you have cereal and milk she saying she looking at him walk on out toward the kitchen she saying you clean up yes ma'am aunt betty

she has all the mannerisms of the negro mammy who stands in front of the stupid helpless tom the cat stands in front of him her arms crossed the end of a rolling pin gripped by one hand an aunt jemima kerchief about her hair a black high heeled pump tap tapping on the formica floor whacks that stupid cat with the rolling pin right there on afternoon cartoons tom and jerry every afternoon that cat gets the shit beat out of it

ron johnson he’s waiting for her to whack jimmy on the back of the head if not with the missing rolling pin with at least the palm of her hand as he saunters on by too cocky for a swagger saunters on by she still demanding just where in the sam hill do you think you're going jimmy he turns still walking backward clutching the satchel with exasperation and a shrug he says with all the sullenness and meanness that a sixteen year old can muster for his mother

we're going to the quarry we're going to set up all these army men and tanks and things and we're going to blow the hell out of them and shoot the shit out of them and then we might light them on fire

and ron’s aunt betty she says red faced she says i'm sure your father will have something to say about this

and jimmy he's sure he will too but that's many hours from now he cannot let the future rule his present rule his presence

and ron he’s waiting outside when jimmy comes storming out onto the back porch the screen door slam slam slamming behind him its squeaky spring wheezing into silence

between the smacks
between the smacks
between the smacks

they tear out of the drive in jimmy’s sixty six impala ess ess the three ninety six the holly six fifty the hooker headers the thrush dual exhaust

and the chrome

oh baby all that chrome

ron johnson he thinks oh lord let’s testify ron johnson he wants to testify

he wants to roll around on the pulpit the preacher putting his hand to his forehead he wants to feel the spirit flow through him he wants to speak his word he wants to chant his word he wants to echo his word speak in tongue to all his creatures

ron johnson he wants his world walls to be solid he wants them to be firm and supportive lawdy lawdy ron johnson he thinks lord don’t let me down send me a message i just want to testify all i want all i need is some sort of sign

a confederate flag painted on the trunk of the impala a confederate flag dangling from his key chain a confederate flag wrapped around their hearts them white folk they got to cling to something the whole world wobbles and george wallace he done been shot

blessed are they who mourn for they shall be comforted

they drive up to the quarry by way of a long dirt road signs at the turnoff stating declaring that it the dirt road it's county maintained the tires spin slightly as they leave the tar and gravel land on the hard pack dirt they leave a trail of dust in their wake

they are two of the four horsemen there are four hundred more beneath the hood

twenty minutes later they pull up to the massive clay pit rolling slowly over bump and bowl the slow rumble of the three quarter crane cam rolling rolling like an idling ski boat

bada bada
bada bada
bada bada

they lug the boxes out ron johnson jimmy they spend a couple of hours setting up the army men arranging the little plastic figures along battle lines in and amongst the rocks and twigs and holes and mounds of dirt jimmy has the green guys from these here united states of america ron johnson he’s the grey the nasty nazis he is representing all that is reprehensible and wrong

it's a dangerous world out there beyond jesup their town cousin jimmy telling ron it don't matter all hell is going to break loose anyway

and so it is and so it will be

ron johnson he set up his artillery along a canyon wall he places a tank battalion moving in across a dusty plain he positions forward snipers embedded in the woods he employs armored carriers and troops moving in from a shadowy flank jimmy he has the high ground he's dug in sort of a guns of navaronne in reverse

there is the calm before the storm there is a silence before the battle

they start with the pellet gun each taking turns picking off a man here a man there a man there are probably five hundred men maybe more they bore of the painfully slow death the one at a time the tick the tock of the executioner's clock ain't nobody going to win this way they begin tossing firecrackers one at a time getting some satisfaction when one lands amidst a group of soldiers in front of a tank alongside a troop carrier

jimmy tosses an em eighty leaving a crater the size of a texas grapefruit ron he buries one at the bottom of jimmy’s fortress lighting the fuse watching part of his wall crumble

too bad they don't make the plastic filled with red goo they want carnage the more they kill the more they want to kill

they twist up several firecrackers and don't even bother with turns throwing them randomly about when they think about it shooting wildly with pellet gun and twenty two jimmy aims a roman candle and lays waste to ron johnson’s front line ron johnson he throws a barrage of bottle rockets at jimmy’s cliff

lo and the walls a'come a'tumblin' down

the smell of gunpowder stings the eyes a tear flows down ron’s cheek he gasps to catch his breath he pauses

between the smacks
between the smacks
between the smacks

blessed are the merciful for they shall obtain mercy

ron johnson he puts down his pellet gun he tosses aside his box of matches jimmy he looks at his little cousin ron he says hey we're not finished we're not done ron johnson he says hey i'm done ron johnson he kicks back he takes a seat on his haunches looking staring wheezing coughing jimmy he says hey we're not finished jimmy he's older he's wiser he whispers his own words of wisdom to ron in the darkness of his room at night

jimmy he ain't done

jimmy he takes the lighter fluid he sprays it all over the battle field soaks the clay soaks the plastic men soaks the tanks and cannons and accoutrements of warfare strewn about them he runs a liquid trail back to where ron johnson sits he stands in front of ron and ron johnson he didn't notice then but now walking down the courthouse hallway now walking through those big doors in ron johnson’s memories when he looks back in that looking glass

when he stares at his soul between breaths of an acid trip he sees them now the little horns those pointy curvy little horns poking up from beneath his shaggy seventies south georgia hair

jimmy he grins he grimaces he tosses a match between ron’s legs

the quick poof of a flame licks ron’s balls

and shoots back down toward the battlefield engulfs the men ron he thinks he hears them scream he knows that now today in the early mornings that time between darkness and sunrise when dreams weigh heavy so heavy he can't wake up he hears them scream

they melt slowly they melt

the gaseous fumes mixing with the hot july day it's all hazy like when clint eastwood wanders out of the desert to begin yet another spaghetti western the good the bad the ugly

they watch for a little while five seconds thirty seconds a couple of minutes some ground cover it catches fire smokes smolders hisses pops ron johnson gets up walks over to the twenty gauge leaning against the car

pump it once aims and pulls the trigger

a holy cacophony reverberates through the canyon through the quarry the number seven bird shot devastating the hillside bits and parts of plastic and mud and clay and dead flora explode and rain down upon them

he pumps it again aims and pulls the trigger

this time the explosion not as loud perhaps they’re half deaf from the first another wave of humanity disintegrates before their eyes another slice of the earth pulverized

blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they shall be satisfied

ron johnson he hungers he thirsts he yearns for righteousness he opens his eyes he looks over at his momma he looks up at his daddy he whispers believe me lord trust me jesus just show me a sign and i will testify

where else they gonna go what else they gonna do except maybe wrap barbed wire about their waist put rocks in their shoes lash themselves in the darkness of their room at night oh to know the pain of jesus ron johnson he do love him so where is she now

ron johnson he opens his eyes he looks over at his momma he looks up at his daddy he whispers come to me jesus let me tell you let me tell you how i feel let me tell you about the stories i love the most

that one story that one part he loves that walking on the water thing it makes him a bit jealous a bit envious in that little kid wanting to have super powers that desire to wiggle his nose and make shit happen he wants that make it hap'n cap'n feeling yeah he wishes he could walk on water slip and slide and saunter and two step across the aquifer hip hop hydroponically have the water tickle his toes like the plushest green lawn on a springtime south georgia morning

blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness for theirs is the kingdom of heaven

their job their duty done they pick up the empty shells they leave the dead on the field of battle they pack their guns and they head on home

bada bada
bada bada
bada bada

a dusty trail in their wake

ron johnson he looks back he whispers oh lord oh lawdy help me to walk on water jesus help us all

Saturday, June 18, 2011

jesup, part the seventeenth, screen doors

and ron johnson he stands at the doorway the paint peeling from the doorjamb in little spidery lines intricately mapped here there everywhere across down the wood a bas relief of lake sinclair and what some might call the foothills thereabouts a geographical representation of all the possibilities of all the roads trails paths routes out of jesup out of this place but

to where to where to where

maybe merely simply a medical textbook sketching of the various blue veins plotted charted engraved on the calves of his great aunt louise on saturday morning that one morning that she doesn't have on her thick nylons that one morning of the week she pads around the kitchen in her slippers and bathrobe serving up grits and eggs and bacon and biscuits to great uncle chic sitting there at the kitchen table adjusting his teeth the expectant drool limiting the bond a little slipping a little sliding

hell it's just grits

and ron johnson he scratches a bit on the screen door peering through hands cupped over eyes his nose scored just a bit by the wire mesh perhaps a couple of them just a little bit frayed jabbing stabbing his nostrils a little touche from her daddy the sun rising up into the late morning sky shining behind him creating patches of grey and black in front of him

and there she is on the other side of the screen that oh so thin veneer that separates them that keeps them apart that allows that oh so close that oh sweet jesus that sweet sweet summer morning smell to arise from those hippie chick fuzzy wuzzy armpits exposed beneath the white wife beater that more likely than not is branded with ron's name rank and serial number in black permanent ink where the tag should be where mister hanes normally leaves his mark her hands clasped above her head those little cupfuls of joy and pleasure and nourishment pushing up through the cotton tiny twin mounts of vesuvius declaring their intent their purpose their mission to burst into life she oh me oh my miz sally she stretched out in her full sepia glory in the family room lazy boy at full tilt recline literally wriggling in what ron hopes prays is anticipation the television dancing silently mary ann and ginger dancing on a bamboo and palm frond stage gilligan and the skipper wide eyed and jaw dropped hands in their pockets hips hula hooping they got spurs that jingle that jangle

they all got wood that twirls around like a compass lost on the north pole

ron he scratches on the screen he whispers hey sally hey girl come on now let me in ron he raps taps rat-a-tats lightly on the wood it gives it bounces slaps against the door frame miz sally her eyes sashay over to ron's silhouette pressed against the screen slowly she smiles that wide wild welcoming hello that turns ron's knees to jello that sends a shaky leg shiver from hip to ankle and back up his spine

weebles wobble but they don't fall down

and sally she motions sends smoke signals says hey sailor slide on in slide on over come on over here lemme have a look lemme have a long one come on come on in and ron he opens the door is welcomed by the long moan and groan of the screen door springs

natural paranoia twists his gaze over his shoulder toward whence he came

an empty whiskey bottle maybe old crow maybe old granddad sits atop the partial fence that attaches to the garage set there like some blindfolded prisoner awaiting execution set there awaiting its bullet that one bullet that will separate it from itself

and desire that bubbling bubbling boiling trouble that stirs that shakes that transmits tremors of elastic electricity little yo-yo’s of ecstatic energy up and down up and down up and down his spine down and out his big toe burning a hole in the door jam as he crosses it

the bottle it just sits there like a knot on a dog’s dick left behind on the fence post

and he ron johnson he walks across the room his eyes catch hers she smiles he smiles she lays back opens her arms wide her buttercups pressing up against the white cotton slight stains of sweat spot dainty wet crescents beneath a seaming water source rather than result

or consequence

she wiggles and giggles on the reclined recliner he ron johnson he stops in front of her looking down upon her his young cock a dowsing rod searching searching desperately searching reaching out for her for her love for her loins his young cock trying to break the bonds trapped against his leg by tidie whities and levis discomfort drives him to reach down squat just the slightest suck in his gut to give himself room while his hand slides down to grab wrap around adjust himself to a more bearable position

his eyes never having left hers hers never having left his ron johnson he wonders if this is love he knows that this is love he doubts that this is love he is convinced that this is love he doesn’t give a shit about love he would give everything if this were love he wants to fuck love in the ass and then toss it over his shoulder on his way out he wants to build love in a bottle and display it on his mantle he wants to

sing a love song on the town square love being such a fucking traveling minstrel show comes into town on a friday afternoon with a parade down main street parties well into the wee hours stays a while gives everyone a thrill and some laughs

then sneaks out of town before monday’s dawn

ron johnson he stands tall and lifts his tee shirt up and over his head marshal tucker wrinkles and folds into a crumpled pile on the bare but polished pine floor can’t you see oh can’t you see what that woman been doing to me he leans over placing one hand on each of the arms of the chair the fold of his skinny gut squeezes two rivulets of sweat out of his navel and they slide down the twin trails of pale red fuzz that lead down below the belt loops of his jeans

her arms sally’s arms they suddenly wrap around him bringing him down to her

her lips

his lips to her lips

and she lifts herself up to him he remains tensed over the recliner his arms trembling her legs wrap around him she is a little writhing snake a creature from the lagoon fighting to hold on to get into his skin under his skin

she is a fucking love leach insatiable gluttonous a ravenous varmint that bites and won’t let go till she gets what she wants gets what she needs what she requires to keep going to keep on she grinds herself against his hip his legs his stomach his chest her love cups pressed up against him soft and young and willing and wanting

she slides around his tensed body like the red on a barber pole

they kiss so hard their teeth click and clack she pulls on his scruffy hair on his ears clasps his throat hangs on by incisors sunk deep she he they so hungry so ravenous desire slices off their ear sends it back home in a box with a ransom note

small unmarked bills only

if you ever want to see them alive again

ain’t nobody know what they know ain’t nobody gonna know what they know

and they collapse into their lover’s prison into their fuck cage trapped by their youth enslaved by his cock chained to her cunt they collapse onto the chair with a bounce and a shout of surprise and a titter and a snicker and a laugh

and then for a moment for a minute for a few more they are not a them they are an it a singular organism shedding clothes and skin and sweat

and they fuck

young fucking

animals rutting

flopping in their own sweat

the recliner bouncing bounding across the wooden floor inches at a time

deep scratches left in the soft pine

and they don’t hear the crunching of tires on gravel outside and they don’t hear the the cadillac pull up front and they don’t hear the dying whine of the air conditioner as the engine shuts down and they don’t hear the open and close of the door

metal on metal

that sweet sound so often associated with the end of the evening with mom getting up and going to the kitchen like pavlov’s dog getting down the glass and bottle from the cabinet the clink clink of ice dropping into the glass with mom pouring from the bottle of old granddad old crow two glugs of the bourbon over ice a lift a slight shake to cover and warm the two cubes

and they don’t hear the scraping of feet on the mat the tapping of the toe on the step to loosen and shake free the dirt caught in the loose cracks between sole and shoe

but they do hear the sound of the front door opening the casual greeting followed by the usual curse of the day this time a hey i’m home goddamn john amberlin got an emergency call some knocked up trailer trash having her baby early john had to take off after the fourth hole just as well i was putting like shit anyway hot as goddamned hades out there anyway hey sally where are you come make your daddy some iced tea

and ron johnson is up and off sally up and off that recliner and sally hopkins is up and out from under ron johnson up and off that chair and they scramble for their clothes and ron johnson he slides back into marshal tucker and slips on his jeans and boots as he hustles out the back screen door sally hopkins chasing after him stopping at the door to catch the screen keep it from slamming with one hand as she slides into her shorts in the other

and she looks back and there on the floor are ron johnson’s underwear and she knows they are his because ron johnson his momma had written his name in big bold black letters over the tag in the back and sally her eyes are locked on ron johnson’s name and when they let loose of those drawers she looks up and sees her daddy judge hopkins sees his eyes themselves are locked on ron johnson’s name

and judge hopkins he doesn’t say a thing and after a minute a full sixty second count he just walks back into the kitchen picks the receiver up off the wall phone and punches in a few numbers and stands there

later sally hopkins when she would see ron johnson next maybe two maybe three days on sally hopkins she would tell ron johnson that the only thing her daddy said into that phone were

hey charlie this is judge hopkins

yeah

yeah say charlie do me a favor send a car on around here will you

yeah that’s right

my place

yeah that’s right

thanks charlie you tell that sweet wife of yours i said hello all right now good bye

and he judge hopkins he walks back into the sun room he leans over he picks up ron johnson’s drawers he balls them up puts them in his front golf pants pocket and he walks out the back door to watch ron johnson unload the truck

and wait for the patrol car to come on around

Monday, June 13, 2011

Jesup, part the sixteenth, monday monday

and it’s monday it’s a monday in june and ron is at work he's not working but he's there occupying space and time there at his at his place of summer employment working for bobby's daddy bobby of the shirtless double bird bobby of the double yellow line crossing bobby whose daddy owns the place bobby who will one day maybe if he lives if he stays out of jail if he if he if he

yeah maybe

it’s a fucking roll of the dice a game of chance a draw of the short straw a flip of the coin an unknown algorithm decided configured perfected by that nameless godhead that master architect of intelligent design who weaves our collective and individual fates into the fabric of time

god is a baptist but jesus was an accident an unintended consequence suffering six sigmas don’t you know perfection rests on the most fragile of variables

desideratum demands diligence

but death is easy it’s the blink of an eye the snap of the fingers the slight distraction from detail a drunken detour right when the lane leans left a culvert pipe its mouth open like jonah’s whale

and ron he’s at work on this monday this post-hallucinatory float atop a sea of worry and hope and ron he’s out back in the warehouse sitting back leaning back on a stack of big rectangular bags of peat moss laid this way and that in a makeshift lazy boy recliner the dried peat puffing out through tiny air holes each time he moves each time he fidgets he relaxes rather ron he simply reflects watching the morning clock tick tock if he smoked he'd be smoking if he did heroin if he even knew where to buy heroin if he knew one could really buy heroin here in jesup he'd probably be running it up floating back down like scooby-do do on saturday mornings after his scooby snack floating away doing that magic carpet ride up and out of town but the clock it ticks it tocks one slow second after the other some balzacian reminder of anticipated guilt he ron he wastes time his time his boss's time his boss's money time is money he ron he relaxes finds his zone finds that daytime should be nighttime rhythm infusing his post weekend tripster ennui with long lip pursing sips from the warm and now melted grape slurpee picked up from the suwannee swiftee this morning when he stopped for gas the syrupy stickiness of the concoction wrought upon this earth by refugees from the coca cola gulag a nehi dynasty dancing on his tongue like the bare feet of a dozen sugar cane workers just in from a hot afternoon of burning off the field

his lips smack but not with anything close to enjoyment

not that anything might ease these maudlin monday morning blues as he sits back leans back beneath the slow hypnotic twirl of one of the several overhead fans that celebrate the ceiling hanging from the rafters on long galvanized pipe he tries to follow the one blade afflicted with the moldy silvery sheen of duct tape wrapped round its midsection a nigger rigged splint that limps round and round and round but he gets dizzy and closes his eyes

only to be awakened seconds minutes hours days weeks later by the crackling cackling of bobby's daddy calling for ron over the intercom

ron where you at boy got a run for yall

ron his eyes do an ultra slow motion flutter stutter and stare into the void that is this his summer of satisfaction he struggles rolls off his bag o' dirt divan gets himself to his feet a little lightheaded stumbles through the shadowed dustiness of the warehouse tripping over a push broom left lingering in the aisle stops to pick it up leans it back up against a cheap pine lattice painted up all redwood not so different from not unlike the one town whore that might show up on a friday saturday night at the cocktail lounge off the lobby of the king of the road motor inn at the edge of town

he goes up to the register at the front of the store bobby's daddy hands him a handwritten ink and tobacco stained invoice says begins to say stops pauses leans over lets loose with a long stringy slinky spit into the white plastic bucket next to the counter a white bucket already spotted from rim to bottom already having been the recipient of a thousand and twelve shots some on the money some drunkenly hitting the edge splitting the difference bobby's daddy he hands him an invoice says

hey now

pauses fist touched to chest assisting a slight silent gaseous emission says

fill out this here order load up the truck take it on out yonder to the hopkins place

he says bobby's daddy he says the judge he ain't home said he wouldn't be home probably off spending our tax money on a high priority guv'mint mission to the golf course

bobby's daddy he spits says rather mumbles as he turns says

goddamned lawyers

ron he looks a little confused he starts to ask

stops

waits for bobby's daddy to spit

ron he says so if he ain't home where you think he wants me to heft it

bobby's daddy he spits again an irritating ping into the bucket lets drop the whole used up chaw in behind it with a flat plop he says hell boy don't you go to college to learn or you just up there wastin' your daddy's money smokin' that mary-wanna

bobby's daddy hands now on hips shaking his head he says

shit

he says

hell just unload it stack it all up on the side of the garage

ron he takes the list he studies the list bobby's daddy he wanders out front to have himself another chew he leans over his little foil pack of red man opens his jaw shovels shredded tobacco product into his mouth back up into his cheek packs it in until it's full using his fingers to stuff it all up pack it all up

a long dark thick stream yo yo'ing out between his lips down down bouncing up down down slowly down a little further bouncing up dripping down dancing on the bungee cord a little further til he bobby's daddy he grits his teeth tightens his lips just a bit cutting off the tobacco taffy pull watching it splat down onto the sidewalk outside

a few tannic drops spattering leaping onto his creased ben davis breeches

ron walks back to the office to get the keys to the truck he stops at the old black phone on the desk dials out the seven numbers one painfully after another too many nines and eights

hello

hey you home

duh

i got a delivery out to your place your old man playing golf you gonna be there i'm coming over

the voice on the other end of the line slides into a slight pause a little short gasp barely audible the voice on the other end it says

cool hurry up and come on i'll be in the day room downstairs it's cooler back there

see you in a bit

and ron he glances down at the list as he backs the truck up to the warehouse loading dock

and ron he loads the truck with a few bags of soil a few bags of peat moss one still holding his butt print like it was plaster of paris a few bags of mulch four large potted azalea plants

and ron he jumps off the loading dock and climbs behind the wheel turning the key to hear a click another click and another then a catch and a whine and a cough and a fart and a grunt and finally a roar

and ron he works the three on the tree and the clutch in two part harmony the tires spin just a bit on the gravel as he punches the gas and leaves the lot

a single rock escapes the rear flaps pops out from beneath the rubber like a tiddly wink

pings

an old tin washtub standing on its side like a bass drum down at the edge of the property painted adorned with the words jesup feed and seed pings it with a

plink

pulls onto the road heads north out toward the edge of town the road that leads out to the hopkins place passes the trailer park with the little fountain gurgling at the entrance separating the coming in from the going out passes fat old mister thomas riding his little red comet riding lawnmower his pale white belly jiggling all jelly roll across his brownish green lawn exhaust and dust and trimmings and lizard legs blowing out the side ron he waves mister thomas he nods touches the brim of his panama hat

the edge of town gives way to plots of pine separating surrounding a couple of small fields one of them hosting a greying wood structure a cabin a shack a home sitting up under beside a tall poplar a clothes line running from the house to a tall post thirty feet away two pair of gym socks a pair of briefs and a thin white sheet pinned to the line limp and hanging contributing to and absorbing the humidity

ron he slows downshifts into second the truck jumps and moans he turns into the long driveway that winds up through a small grove of pecan trees that says gentleman farmer that separates the house from the road running back on into town that splits into a fork near the corner of the house one branch leading up and around the front forming a little circular la-de-da before the faux off white plantation era columns splotched with the stains of this past spring's spider webs the other branch going on around back to the building that serves as garage barn and tool shed

ron has his hands on the steering wheel ten and two the wheel loose and forgiving the tires crunching on the gravel dust puffing up and into the open windows as if the elements conspire to mask the oncoming interloper the big truck moving slowly purposefully on around back up around and next to the garage unseen from the front ron he opens the door with a creak a squeak that breaks the heavy silence of the cloudless midday he looks toward the house

the back door's open

Friday, April 22, 2011

Jesup, part the fifteenth, the return ride

the road home longer than the road there it's as if home had heard they were coming and had slipped over into the next valley

perhaps donned a pair of fake glasses nose and mustache maybe dyed its hair changed it up a little

who knows every day ron ain't there it just don't seem to care it just keeps on keeping on

and about half way home maybe half way away from home billy and his buddy bobby come up from the opposite direction headed right towards ron and steve and allison and sally going back towards savannah away from jesup about half way home at first they're just a glint of sunday afternoon sunshine a sparkle coming over the horizon then they're a distant dream a cobwebbed memory a chrome grill grinning wiggling winding just a bit even though it's a long straight road connecting two points of nowhere every now and then the wiggle goes too far the back tires squiggle off the blacktop onto the soft shoulder throwing up a cloud of dust

puffalo soldier

spinning in control steve he sits back way back in the bucket seat arms extended long and skinny all the way to the steering wheel eyes forward focused on the task at hand in some post fungal intensity that seems to have evaded miz allison who sleeps in the passenger bucket laid back head to one side a long thread of drool escaping from the corner of her mouth leaving a trail on her cheek as gravity claims it dripping down onto her tank topped breast one leg foot out the open window her loose wrap around hippie skirt fallen down up past her thigh to her crotch exposing pale yellow cotton panties just a touch of seventies bush some fringe garden peeking out from the edges

billy and bobby come speeding up horns a'blarin' arms a'wavin' passes them gets a couple hundred yards down the road u-turns around in a sidewinding fishtail off the soft shoulder speeds back towards them eventually pulls up alongside them pulling up from almost out of nowhere a redheaded billy grinning from behind the steering wheel looking across and out the window looking out through the windshield back and forth like he couldn't make up his mind a shirtless bobby leaning out the passenger window his long blonde curls flapping in the wind catching mosquitos and love bugs and all manner of flying creatures bobby leaning across the divide leaning out of the car over

the double yellow line

right arm extended a lit joint in his hand motioning for steve to take it steve inching the car left the dull reflection of the sun hitting the glass of an oncoming car maybe a half mile away steve reaching out thumb to forefinger open and close like he was some stoned operator of one of those concessions at the county fair plop in a couple of quarters twirl the knobs this way that way the little crane enclosed in the glass box it jerks this way that way up down the cars they move this way that way in out steve carefully grasping the joint bobby falling sliding jumping back into his seat steve braking a bit slowing down billy zipping on around back into his proper lane the oncoming car horn blasting screaming

a long white middle finger connected to an arm extending stretching to the heavens billy and buddy bobby slowing their car a ragged excuse of a seventy two malibu run nearly to its grave pulling off the road letting steve and the cuda gang go by before whipping another u-turn and heading after bird man shirtless bobby back out the window both arms raised middle fingers extended from each he screaming a loud rebel yell

steve passes the joint back over his inside shoulder to ron and exhales out the window