Jesup, Part the Third (a rewrite, a re-positioning)

and he ron johnson no he has not yet found his path he ron johnson who climbs the marble steps ascends to mom takes her hands in his kisses her on the cheek stands one step below and to her right watching the sidewalk the road below

some early lunchers headed across the street to the diner a horn and a wave from the cab of the truck as it rumbled by a couple of buzzards circling out over the lot out behind the feed and seed

a dog part hound part lab part shepherd chases after a squirrel running into the street another honk of a horn a squeal of the wheels the dog returning to the sidewalk

ron johnson his mom she says placing a hand on his shoulder she says your daddy he'll be here shortly ron johnson he nods he says

yeah

ron johnson he watches the road nothing else to do hands in his pocket he watches the road he glances up at the sun glances over to the big magnolia a couple of crows screaming down at a large jay who perches two branches below ron johnson he notices but doesn't remember

one day when he cares he will

remember

he will remember

he looks out the the lawn looks out into the far afternoon haze through the window of his discontent out onto a place where faeries and tinkerbells flitter and fart about the forest floor about the blooms here and there iris and daffodil shiver and shake and shudder virgins in the convent behind the walls the crumbling walls the only thing between their chaste thighs and the marauding hordes those drunken sparkles that gorge themselves on their own arrogance on the moaning erojuices that tender sweet pussy nectar freshly squeezed acrobatting about through the air from flower to flower from thistle to whistle from stamen to pistil from chuck to fuck

from chuck to fucking fuck

staring through the window through the window staring

his discontent

turns to find the back and ever so slightly because of the angle of the stairs the top of the sheriff's head so odd to see right there down there that way uncovered beneath the late morning sun his completely bald and naked head scattering razors of bright emptiness when the near noon time rays happened to bounce his way the light giving shape form to the contours of his pinkish skull a slight dip a little more than a mere indentation but much too subtle to claim the crown of crater perhaps a curious concavity when set upon by apollo

perhaps it doesn't exist at all maybe it's merely a projection of the motherfucker's sordid soul his acceptance of the simple state of being that is his own personal inferno here this day hell here any day at this county seat that is jesup where he lives comfortably where he only does what he must doesn't reach up doesn't frown down

and ron johnson he's oh kay with that he's got no problem with a man doing what he's got to do he's oh kay with a man accepting his place

but right now ron johnson he has a big case of not really caring of not really giving a shit not really giving a flying fuck he wonders if the sheriff really cares if the sheriff stays awake at night worrying about what might have been worrying about what might be

ron johnson he don't know what the sheriff does but ron johnson he himself he stays awake at night

sometimes he stays awake at night

kindling that little down deep fire

a fire of big ideas he's got loftiness in his thoughts his feelings

feelings like love love is such a big idea he feels like it feels like love feels like it's just a few words on a page sometimes elegant sometimes crude often fumbling fumbling fumbling

ron johnson he's got big ideas he's got loftiness he just can't see them where he stands he can see them on a map on a piece of paper but he just hasn't figured out how to get there how to get from where he is to where he wants to be ron johnson he has not yet found his path he has not yet found his place in the sun has not yet found his place at the table

maybe he's just an adventure or two away maybe he's an accident waiting to happen

ron johnson who just this last year walked into the dorm one night

he and his friend hoss big old hoss

the pupils of their eyes wide open and bouncing glimmering flickering oh so slightly in the overhead incandescence

walked into the dorm up the stairs to find chrono kevin eddie sitting idly in their room an album cover sitting on the bed double album unfolded a number of seeds sitting in the crack of the fold some loose shake and tight dry seeded bud decorating peter frampton's blondish tresses casting him further into some sort of three dimensional jesus wearing the crown of thorns

chrono bong in hand he said looking up he said click click clicking his bic he said hey click click clicking his bic he said taking a moment to gurgle up some smoky salvation he said

hey want to play a little twenty one we're about to put on a little lou

ron and hoss they smiled they grinned twenty one being the number of minutes a certain lou reed song would steal from the clock start to finish twenty one being the number of bong hits a participant was expected to complete to execute before that last audible downbeat of said lou reed song

ron and hoss they smiled they grinned they answered with a deafening nervous silence looking from chrono to kevin to eddie glancing and grinning at them at each other

they stood in the doorway shivering two days of freshman growth on their faces faded black swashes of grease or ash or dirt streaking cheek throat hands clothes kevin said what the fuck happened to you where the fuck you been they shuffled they rubbed their hands together on their pants into their pockets then together again ron he said

wiping a sleeve across beneath his nose sniffling back a phlegmy run for the border

he said

we hopped a train

eyes wide eyebrows raised lighter poised above the bowl

ron and hoss they said hoss he said so don't you know we were walking back from dinner just having scarfed down a couple of dagwoods feeling good feeling nice and full and happy lighting up a jay when some sort of premonition came over us like we had been thinking about it the whole time like we were cassidy and kerouac with an ethereal plan with a command from elijah

ron he said yeah there we were all soaking in this evening love when here comes this fucking freight train

the train slowing down as it rounded the bend coming onto campus down near the old depot this old rust colored box car just kind of cried out to us to me and hoss with its big yellow letters declaring

goldkist

might as well have been the yellow neon out front of the plaza theater tempered by a bottle of codeine or a handful of disco biscuits

hoss he said looking at ron like whoa where did that come from hoss he said its big sliding door already open like an invitation to some sweet sixteen spread her legs party we me and ron we thought we'd just jump on go a couple of miles down the track then hop off catch the next one coming back toward campus maybe a couple of hours next thing we know we're fucking rushing through the west fucking georgia countryside cold air streaming through the slats the smell of ratshit catshit hoboshit gagging and choking us as we traveled through the night the train not stopping until we were somewhere the fuck well into alabama

and hoss he said nodding at chrono for a cigarette chrono tapping out a marlboro tossing it over with a lighter hoss he said lighting the cig inhaling he said

yeah and ain't neither one of us too comfortable that far down in alabama

got so cold in that fucking train we hugged each other grabbed hold to each other like two midtown fags

ron he said now returning the what the fuck glance back at hoss ron johnson he said yeah fucking cold he said if i had had a knife i would have slit him open and crawled inside i would have got all call of the wild with his big ol' loving self

ron he said and the goddamn train so fucking loud rambling down through those woods and fields we screamed at the top of our lungs couldn't hear a thing couldn't hear ourselves think just the clackety clack and squealing of metal on metal the whistling of the wind

for hours and hours forever it seemed

hoss he nodded hoss he said fuck we stumbled out into that goddamn next day frosty dawn when that fucking shit stained slave ship finally slowed to a squealing crawl smack dab in the middle of a bunch of tracks all coming together in the dull morning light we had no idea where we were trying to figure out from whence we came trying to figure out which track led back to atlanta

the only hint that we were in alabama really the only clue was this glimpse of an empty bama state patrol car parked fifty yards away over by some depot looking shack

ron he said yeah some slim stream of smoke or steam sliding out of and up from a rusted pipe snaking out of kind of nailed to its ashen wooden side

some old black man wearing two sunday coats a brown felt bowler and boots with no strings came out between two trains popped out like hamlet's fucking daddy of a ghost nearly pissed my pants scared the shit out of me but old hoss he asked him he said ha he was we was so fucking cold he had his hands tucked deep into his pockets his shoulders all hunched up around his ears he said excuse me he said hey can you tell us which train goes back to atlanta

the room burst into laughter stoned giggles bursting into guffaws hoss he said what the fuck else was i gonna ask he didn't seem to be in a small talk mood

ron he laughed he pointed at hoss ron he said old hoss he looked at that old black man old hoss he said hey

which way is home

hoss he blushed turned red shrugged the room it shrugged its agreement hoss he said well this old black man

he stopped he looked around he looked at us two pitiful souls standing helpless there in front of him he looked at the direction from where we had just walked he rubbed his chin in that well let me just take out my trig book i'm sure

the answer is right there

in front of me

but he didn't say a word he thought maybe a full-count minute he shrugged he started walking again

me and ron we're like what the fuck but then the old black man

he stopped he pointed

at the train we'd just departed then he walked on his way never having said a word we me and ron scrambled back into our goldkist cruise liner and hunkered down

ron he said with a little bit of after shiver he said

that was yesterday we just got back

chrono he shrugged he flicked his bic he fellated the bong he looked up he said his words flowing into and out of a cloud of ganjaesque concern he said

whoa well welcome home glad you didn't get raped i mean i hear that there's all sorts of queer hobo rapists riding the trains

ron he said where the fuck did you hear that

chrono he shrugged he said i hear things don't you know

ron and hoss they each took a turn on the bong before wandering out of the room and down the hallway the stench of rodent feces hobo piss dinty moore lingering behind perhaps permanently on chrono's comforter on the faux hippie tapestry that hung in the doorway

the taint meandered behind them as they turned the corner past the bathrooms one guy walking out all freshly scrubbed and nattily if not preppily adorned in his ess ay ee monogrammed terry coth robe scrunching his nose turning pale saying what horse you been fucking

they ron and hoss they ignored him they walked away from prep boy he in the opposite direction walking upstream into yesterday's adventure its stain neutralizing the hai karate

ron he looked over at hoss he said so hoss man we had a big idea we just couldn't figure out how to get there hoss he said what do you mean man we made it there and back ain't too many can say that

don't you fucking know

ron he paused and then he went on into his room

Jesup, Part the Second (a new chapter)

ron's momma waits for him at the top of the steps on the wide white marble veranda ron lifting one foot after another the bleached snowy stone staccato heavy and dull on this morning echoing a somber flat note

this august morning

this morning that has taken forever to get going this morning set in the middle of this fucking swamp of time that they have circled circumnavigated circumscribed circle jerked about all summer

ron would just as soon shoot his wad get on with it

ron all of eighteen not far from nineteen having finished up his freshman courses at emory university that fine establishment of higher learning nestled away in a halcyon-laced fuzzy forest green shire in the middle of modern atlanta finished up freshman year a couple months back a lifetime ago well after planting season around about in june not an exceptional year his professors not proclaiming his academic prowess not declaring him a bastion of pedagogic future

he has not yet found his place in the sun has not yet unleashed his passion for learning within those hallowed halls

ron johnson who has been known to run naked through the corridors of dobbs hall bong in hand acid on his brain a red brown farmer's tan contrasting against pasty pale skin and orangish yellow pubic hairs that run a thin trickling tickle all the way up to his freckly puss

he ron johnson no he has not yet found his path he has not yet found that yellow brick road that land of milk and honey that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow all he has found maybe is a little bit of his own private idaho

and even that

sketchy

at best

and even that

a vaporous cyclorama undulating in a rhythm uncertain a song composed of oft-hidden notes randomly poking their sweet little heads out from behind the rocks cluttering the landscape distinguishing his high desert from the bonneville salt flats of non-existence of utter boredom

he ron johnson no he has not yet found his path but he has tucked a year of schooling behind him one down how many more to go

depends oh it just depends

but he has tucked one more year behind him and he is back in jesup same as it always was hey howdy mister mac how's them soy beans growing this year hey howdy mister henry i hope this dry spell don't harm your corn none hey howdy johnny james your daddy buy you another transam

the azaleas the rhododendrons my my in june oh my in july tsk tsk in a drought wrought august

ron johnson his momma waits for him at the top of the steps on the wide white marble veranda

of the courthouse

big white columns reaching to the heavens supporting the cushioned divan of justice herself she who lounges in her silken robes

blindfolded

her legs gently parted

easily parted

by those who could by those who would

his momma who stands at the top of the wide wide steps her arms crossed across her blue oxford shirt her short legs extending from the spotlessly clean and pressed knee length khaki skirt an august bandanna wrapped about and beneath to keep her brownish blondish hair off the nape of the neck

which sports twin trails of perspiration a slow salty spirit of the morning

she smiles purposefully weak at first to express not her displeasure simply her wounding disappointment but as ron johnson gets closer her smile widens into a grin she can't be too disappointed in such a boy the way he looks up at her the way he humbles himself before her the way he touches the brim of his cap and nods she cluck-clucks and chuckles inwardly at his goofy big feet too big for the steps she can't be disappointed in him in her only son after all

god so loved the world and all that

Jesup, Part the First (a rewrite)

jesup part the first, a reading

the humidity hangs heavily upon the wiregrass and pines around the spanish bayonets that nobly slit and tear through the slithering puffiness that threatens to smother that threatens to leach their vigor deep green daggers of discipline that slash at the moaning souls swinging swords of righteousness lacerating the dank stirring it sending it scooting scurrying up through within amidst the spanish moss that floats from the cedar the cypress dripping down in fibrous wafts these graying vessels of ghosts of ancestors and friends of souls seeking sustenance souls unrequited gasping for breath in this mugginess this sticky airlessness that hovers above pressing down upon the world this world upon the two-lane blacktop that bisects this endless bog splitting this swamp in two the road a ribbon of sizzling asphalt running right down through this isolated impoverished land of hookworm pellagra athlete's foot

the dull silver light refracts through this humid prism swims a ballet a wondrous june taylor dancer spectacular does a jello wiggle go go girl shimmy in the cage that is south georgia as the truck rumbles grumbles

a single pair of tired eyes looking out the window splotches of dying of brown wiry death leading right up to the line of pine soldiers a thousand deep marching down through georgia on their way to the soft white beaches maybe a hundred miles away all the way down in that part of the state that no man's land between macon and the coast down along the alapaha river making its way

meandering on around

way down through the wasteland to jesup just a little clearing in the woods don't know how they got there don't know why they stayed it's just a bend in the river down around about the middle of but not quite near nowhere

some call it home some call it theirs

some call only to get a busy signal

some call it way down there way over yonder just as general sherman marched from atlanta to milledgeville to savannah across the river and on into the carolinas

yeah back in the day back in those times back when they gave a shit them a conquered people

humbled and stubborn and angry and bitter and run back driven back into the bushes with their tails between their legs reminded of their humiliation over and over and over again

every day

shit it happens but when it does

they sanctify the lord god in their hearts ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh a reason of the hope that is with meekness and fear

their lord god who abandons them in their time of need lord god who abandons them wanders his old trails his familiar paths touching the anointed ones disregarding those who abandoned him first

he's a jealous god he's a mischievous god

but he's their god he's all they got

and the chevy shortbed pickup pulls into town ambles along past hardware store and five and dime and gulf station slows to a stop alongside the curb its motor turning over hesitantly like it ain't yet done like it don't want to stop it's got a couple more firings left in the plugs

an old smoker climbing the last step of the staircase the truck it wheezes it coughs it burps it gives

a shudder a shake

a sunday morning hangover sitting on the toilet a sweaty chill going up the old man's spine the bowels flutter wind and drop tight whiskey bound shit plop plop

a loosening a release

an ah fuck

a couple of dirt clods dried earthen meatloaves having attached themselves to the undercarriage after the last heavy rain after the last slow splashing trudge across the muck of the fen near the family farm having attached themselves to the undercarriage like muddy land-barnacles they these melangesque scum chunks they let go their desperate clinging they casually dislodge themselves from below the rear fender they fall tumble through the monoxide thickness land explode into a series of tiny mushroom puffs

a nothingness that floats heavenward

a body moves behind a windshield painted with the corpses of a thousand coupling love bugs a weary molasses shadow just beyond the thin outline of wiper tracks where the brittle rubber blades once danced in vain not that it matters not that the world this day presents any vivid disneyana upon which to gaze

the door wheezes open one then two brogans step heavily onto the runner onto the road back of the sleeve wipes the brow as the feed and seed cap is lifted eyes squint into the harsh nauseousness of the day

not a cloud to be seen not even a wisp not even a haze don't matter none ain't no nevermind the late morning august sky in jesup still about as tired and grey and lifeless as the old gelding's limp dick ain't much good come out of it exceptin' a weak piss an afternoon sprinklin' that don't do no good precipitation that hardly hits ground before returning home the ground this time of the year this part of the coastal summer this south georgia hell hole just up the road from brunswick just down the road from savannah a land so scorched and dry the grass it snaps crackles pops as ron johnson he takes the slow walk across the courthouse lawn to the big white marble steps that lead up to the big wooden doors that open to this seat of county governance that lead up to this morning's hearing that

lead up to his tomorrow

the pines and shrubbery a dull drooping green the azaleas browning at the edges their flowers crumpled dead beneath and ignored by the gang of stink bugs batting about the collection of rolypolies balled up in the dust

the magnolia though thick with leaves appears not to cast even the whisper of a shadow

a couple of tweets maybe they're finches perhaps they're wrens they peck about so slowly the insects barely have to move to avoid being made a meal a gnarly feral cat gazes lazily from its nap its hunger pangs submissive to the heat and humidity hoping its avian dinner will wait til later

a miserable fuck of a place jesup in august

the only life seemingly worth living the only life with a purpose this morning this unending moment in time this world so heavy that the hands of the clock crawl through the sorghum air barely budging barely punching their way to the next second the next minute the only life with any will to continue these vicious little fire ants little fiendish fuckers frantically scurrying about the several templish mounds arising up from the middle of the yard like some post-apocalyptic sodom and gomorrah

they the fire ants go about their business moving grains of sand from here to there waiting for maybe daring some flip flop wearing fool to stumble across provoke them into a swarming red menace

god's curse wrought by herman talmadge by jay bee stoner by the knights by the brotherhood

my sweet lord

this heat

such a long slow death

a poor soul might as well just go ahead take out the black jack throw away the cork take a shot take another guzzle the rest put the pedal to the metal toss the bottle to the wind drive on into the drainage ditch run the front of the truck into the culvert drive the steering post through your chest smash the life out of your broken heart goddamn better to go out in a flash

than to whither away like these magnolia blossoms

better to follow all those others over the last few years drunken high school volunteer soldiers of death don't you know all you gotta do release the wheel spread your arms wide sing a song for jesus

a bottle a blindfold light up a fag pull back the hammer with a click squeeze the trigger

shitty shitty bang bang

hum the henry miller mantra lo the freedom to kill ourselves is that one true advantage we humble humans have over god