Monday, February 21, 2011

Jesup, Part the Sixth

couple of weeks before school is to start couple of weeks before ron johnson his shaggy red hair before they say good bye to jesup

out by the spring that feeds into the river end of august

jimmy the mad bonger he says sitting injun style cross legged on the rock overlooking the springs the white river sand blending in with the dark thin porous soil somehow someway supporting cypress trees cypress knees young girls on their knees pine trees spanish moss spanish bayonets spanish pussy black pussy white pussy hell it’s all pink on the inside pussy willows ferns poison ivy poison oak and blackberry bushes pushing against the dirt road littered with old crushed beer and soda cans cigarette butts potato chip bags empty liquor bottles of all colors shapes sizes giving lie to the seventies’ hype about the natural rustic beauty of the rural south

a few old tires peeking out from beneath the briars moss growing from within reaching out from their north side cracks

an old washing machine sitting serenely within the chilling chokehold of the invading kudzu

two mismatched deteriorating nylon socks clinging to the spindle entwined with the voracious vine hanging on hugging tightly in places loosely in others simply


like two lovers living two lives

jimmy the mad bonger he says rather starts to say instead watches preppie george finish off his beer crush the aluminum against his forehead absently toss it on the ground two south florida new york long island hippies

how the fuck did they end up here anyway some stoned sense of adventure got off the freeway said hey let's discover america let's just take the backroads let's make an anthropological study of the local populace the native inhabitants of this strange and naked land

they point complain whine moan george flips them off with disdain his middle finger extended arm angled straight down wrist held below the belt the blow me message directly connected to his cock ron johnson and all the jesup boys they all laugh tell the hippies to fuck off go back to new york and save the world it’s summer of nineteen seventy seven in just out side of around jesup georgia the russians and chinese and goddamn a-rabs are going to fuck 'em up anyway fuck 'em up with embargoes and missiles and submarines and the gulag way before some stray consumer container will capture their collective concern

they’re more worried about getting stoned waste their minds just enough so they won’t have to worry about such shit give 'em a candy jar full of blue valium and bootleg disco biscuits give 'em a cow field after a good summer afternoon rain give 'em a bag of panama red colombian gold jamaican wonder hell even mexican brown they’ll deal with the world in their own sweet way

one two three four
country joe is a fucking whore
five six seven eight
god is dead we’re way too late

they are redneck punks preceding the pistols hiding behind the plastic peace love and tie dye passed along to them by their older california cousins their communes crumbling in the calamity of charles manson their music turning sappy and corporate

pablo cruise and the eagles suck souls dry

anyway simple man don’t need ‘em around anyhow

molly hatchet would have sang holiday in cambodia if they gave a shit but they don’t

jimmy the mad bonger he says sitting injun style on the rock overlooking the springs filling up a big old sink hole must be eighty feet across eighty feet deep crystal cool blue water feeding into miles and miles of underground caverns tunnels roads to hell flowing up and out into the bend that collects the black soup of the altamaha river a giant prehistoric garr breaks the lipton tea surface before diving back down below to feast on the rotting carcasses of fish fowl and beast maybe human too who the fuck knows anything about this litter

along the bottom piss and primordial shit melt into the future

jimmy the mad bonger he says flick flick flicking his bic flame to bowl lips to tube it will take years and years to admit cop to the autoerotic allure such a pose presents leaning over the water bubbling gurgling like he’s gagging on his own cock it’s everyman’s dream to give himself a blow job god if only he had the right combination of proper technique and an extra large cock hell even a respectfully large cock flame to bowl lips to tube

jimmy the mad bonger he pauses he says hey let’s take a road trip

steve oh the wild trombone man he says standing alert holding up the pine tree with his shoulder ankles crossed in that casual lean he’s always so stylish in that momma still buys my clothes sort of way everyone else hell they’re all wearing cutoff jeans it’s the john denver seventies nineteen seventy seven the summer thereof a full decade past that proverbial summer of love summer of lies them cutoffs they be cut mighty short redneck fashion balls and ass hanging proudly their own american flag faggot ugly but they were cute goddamn cute in that don’t give a fuck pop me a bud from the cooler peter frampton coming alive through someone’s car speakers sort of way cutoff jeans no shoes no shirt maybe the occasional zeppelin or skynnrd or dark side of the moon tee shirt long haired scraggly bearded bone skinny stoners hanging in the south georgia sun

but not steve the wild trombone man

he’s wearing white tennis shorts with pockets and an eye zod shirt he’s got that gee cue blond hair combed to the side the only clue that he’s one of the gang is the fucked up grin that sort of cocks to one side and the eyes that sparkle purple an effect due perhaps to some magical blend of his baby blues and the bright ganja glowing maze of red vessels in the sea of white eyeball

steve the wild trombone man he says with a cocky wave of his gooseneck bud he says not knowing what the rest know now not knowing then that he’d find himself in the not too distant future employed by georgia power as a so called nuclear safety check bio technician wandering around the huge expanse of the vidalia nuclear plant on the night shift dragging thirty gallon garbage bags filled with nitrous stopping on a regular basis to medicate himself against the future holocaust three mile island fresh on his mind tis no wonder why those onions are so freakishly sweet

goddamn each one of them what they would give for a whippet right now

steve the wild trombone man he says standing at the edges he is the voice of practical wisdom he is the voice of the world to come he is the voice of a timid jimmy carter lusting in his heart not yet in his hand he says

i’m in

ron johnson hell he's already signed up he's easy and jimmy the mad bonger a couple of years older than the rest matriculating down at georgia southern studying criminal justice a mad man who left his rocker later down the life road fell into the ditch of time lost to most of the gang jimmy the mad bonger he sits cross legged on the rock a wide brimmed leather hippie cowboy hat perched atop his raggedy noggin long black frizzy hair flying everywhere whenever he walks into a room he brings his own ecosystem gurgle gurgle bubblicious he exhales a plume of smoke read by the seminoles sitting around their own spirit rock the next county over

dot dot thumpa thumpa scratch the clouds kiss the sky do the hustle

the bee gees are god’s joke on them all they opened the world up to having sex with little boys transvestites and skinny old men in bus depots goddamn opium is so much better than heroin don’t you think

whatever happened to piss and vinegar

whatever happened to love and chastity

long hair is all about getting laid

ron johnson hell he's already signed up he's so easy the mad bonger he points at steve's cuda he says yo steve oh you driving he grins deep from within baby faced cheeks and sun bleached peach fuzz whiskers he says yeah man i'm driving i’ll drive us straight to hell it’s got to be better than this place let’s go just tell me

where we headed

ron johnson he says he says hey i got a county map three nebutols and a six pack

jimmy the mad bonger he says i got ten joints rolled thirty seven dollars and my old man’s gas card

the seminoles hell they just got a raw deal

a loud piercing rebel yell scream breaks through the planning exercise we look up some white boy soars through the air ay bee sea wild world of sports joy of victory agony of defeat cliffs of acapulco beautiful swan dive from the sun bleached water logged wooden perch eighty feet up the tree a splish a splash bubbles ripples three days later he emerges from the deep sitteth at the right hand of god almighty father son holy fucking ghost

one stoner on the other side of the springs he stands on a rock and claps yells attaboy jeff-ro

three people in black rubber suits emerge from a ford econoline van sporting indiana license plates northern sophisticate thrill seekers carrying heavy tanks and flippers making their way down the path to the water they are on their own they seek to dive deep into the springs explore the secret of the caves maybe fuck a manatee odds are they will stir up some watery dusty silt get confused lost forget which way is up down in out

another dead tourist

and ron johnson and jimmy the mad bonger and steve oh they could give a shit everyone else around there they could give a shit what’s a dead yankee to them they get angry when the locals make fun of them the way they talk their aversion to grits their lack of understanding of basic manners they act superior and offended when the boys do a rising shotgun on the flat rocks reaching out cantilevered out over the water squatting down head between their knees hyperventilating rushing their breath in out in out in out standing up rising as one or the other inhales a stream of reefer smoke being shotgunned from an inversely mouthed joint yet another homoerotic stoner’s dream come true they get pissed when they do their rising shotguns nearly pass out fall into the icy spring water the cold rush of stoned to straight as vicious as straight to stoned fall splash flailing in the water where they seek solace and peace and the thrill of exploration

hey cave diving is dangerous they want the boys to know

thing is they fucking know it’s asshole danger idiot danger down in them caves that’s why they don’t do it stupid fucking yankees the boys they emerge from the water shake their soaking rat’s nest of hair like the dogs they are spraying water all over the store bought yankee cave maps and dive books the boys take deep breaths play gator swim deep follow the rubber suiters part of the way down dropping underwater trou mooning their pioneer facades with ass and attitude an afternoon fight would only break the monotony

fuck dude don't you know preppy george be on ludes

the afternoon fades

the road trip fades with it

red haired weather comes stumbling down the path a mostly empty bottle of jack daniels in his hand the top long since lost he’s mumbling something swinging his free fist at the air mumbling i ain’t studdin’ you motherfucking faggot yankee bastards i’ll fuck your sister and mother and great aunt louise if i goddamn feel like it he perks up when he sees us his grimace turning to grin hey cuz big ton he done left me drove off with some strange blonde chick who wanted to fuck hey cuz how about a ride home his red curly mullet falling down on his tanned shoulders he is a green eyed scotch irish god with a tobacco picking tan

he stops spreads his arms wide looks up to the sky and howls

goddamn i’m drunk

all he wants is to get in a fight so he can sober up before going back into the fields tomorrow ain’t nothing worse than being sloshed sifting through sand for bottom leaf snakes and spiders sliding through the weeds while the bastard sun sucks what little life the bottle didn’t take

nothing worse than the realization that this is as good as it gets summer sundays sure fuck the mondays some of them have escape plans ron johnson he's going to college in the fall off to atlanta little does he know he don't want to come back wild trombone mad bonger preppie george they're all going to college red haired weather he can barely read recognizes his whiskey bottle by the color and shape

road trip forgotten ron nods jimmy nods steve oh he nods to ron johnson says

hey man you drive ron johnson he says


steve oh he grins gives a thumbs up turning into a peace sign stumbles backwards as he reaches into his pocket pulling out the keys tosses them over to ron johnson as he spins clumsy ballerina tip toes tripping on kudzu while unzipping catches his balance briefly on a young sapling stripping it of its needles fails falls and rolls onto his back as he pulls his cock free

momentarily confused

he normally takes his piss standing up turns his head to look up at ron jimmy red looking down grins says

yeah ron you drive

they pull him up holding him steady so he can properly piss

they finish the beer they split and pop the nebutols anyway they fire up a couple of the joints they pile into the steve's car and let red hair weather sit up front steve oh and jimmy they crawl into the back behind the bucket seats the naugahyde sticking to sweaty thighs allman brothers in the eight track they take back road west toward jesup to avoid the state troopers setting speed traps the roads curve along the river valleys and swampy bogs

the back end slides from beneath them ron johnson turns the wheels into the slide each time wiggle wiggle windows open early evening air pouring through a hot cold furnace red hair weather has one hand on the dash holding steady the three eighteen four barrel bursting with madness pine trees appear as dusky ghosts through the front windshield in the rear view mirror

a lone hawk glides over a fallow field

duane and dickie slide their guitars greg ties himself to a whipping post they're all tied to this fucking whipping post sometimes they just feel like they’re tied to a whipping post


the pine trees line up on either side of the road where they're supposed to be all in rows and columns on either side of the car skinny pcp-smoking prisoners awaiting execution rusty dead cars and dead car parts litter the ditches regularly spaced randomly applied three dimensional tattoos permanently staining the landscape the body of some drunken carny strewn across the linoleum floor of the doublewide it’s recognizable as nature but something just don’t look right

red hair weather he bolts upright fist to mouth at first biting the knuckle next his hand spreading across the gaping hole gasping for breath breathing faster and faster no one really notices he whispering dude pull over he yelling dude pull over he grabbing ron johnson's arm he screaming dude pull over no one hearing him until it’s too late he’s leaning out the window ron johnson is doing ninety miles an hour down a rough tar and gravel road

big red he spews vomit

out the window into the south georgia early evening summer setting sun glowing red over the swamp spews chunky jack daniels potato chip and slim jim vomit out the window it pours out his mouth images of astronauts in space weightless pouring of tang from those cool space age pouches pours out of his mouth out into the evening back in through the rear window splatters across the naugahyde splatters onto the passed out drunken sleeping mugs of steve oh and jimmy the mad bonger

chunky monkeys

big red weather falls into his seat matted hair back against the cushioned head rest he looks at ron johnson he grins he says wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he says

goddamn i feel better

he leans over look back between the seats at his two victims mutters whoa sorry cuz falls back into his seat looks at steve one more time hits the last of the jack bottle throws it out the window at a road sign declaring the road county maintained they're going too fast to hear the crash of glass bottle on rusty tin pops a pepsi cola chugs it half way down looks at ron again he says pushing in the lighter waiting waiting waiting pop open up the box of cigs fires up a marlboro red drags deeply exhales he says

goddamn i feel better

ron glances in his rear view mirror steve oh jimmy the mad bonger they sleep peacefully a few chunks sprinkled throughout their shagginess a little splatter on bare skin the wind blows the stench of vomit on out behind them ron johnson he grins takes red's cigarette and nods yeah he says wiping the filter of whatever shit is on his lips he says

gazing out the window the remaining stench of vomit mixing with the wafts of the paper mill and trees spitting pine sol ron johnson he says

yeah i feel good too

down by the river summer afternoon


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