Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Jesup, part the fourteenth, a homecoming of sorts

and that first week the same parties out in the same break in the woods maybe down by the bend in the river after work after dinner the same friends the same stories the same shit

some places time it just stands still

and that weekend they head over toward someplace not far just this side of savannah just south of there off in some big old field to pitch a tent under the moon at the edge of some big piney wood spend a couple of days listening to some pickin' and grinnin' kicking up the dust all barefoot and shirtless maybe wear his straw cowboy farmer's hat he and sally they hop into steve oh's white barracuda along with miz allison

packed stuffed into the cuda with tents and sleeping bags and a cooler full of beer and a bottle maybe two of wild turkey and a bag of lemons from the tree in miz allison's back yard

and copious amounts of marijuana a bag of athens dick weed and some thai sticks that ron had brought home from atlanta a bag of gainesville green miz allison had brought home from her year at the university florida she the turncoat she who even in the company of true believers sports her gator orange

and the first ten miles of the ride it rains that late south georgia afternoon rain rains for ten miles and then they drive another ten miles as the bastard sun still high in the sky expressing his disdain upon the land as the sun sucks the steam up from the rain slicked tar and gravel back roads

as if god himself is chasing the dragon inhaling the sliding steaming sweat of the earth's cunt and her offspring offered up on an asphalt runner suckled up through some celestial straw zeus flicking his bic big plastic rainbow colors lighting up his crack pipe creation

grumpily mumbling

ah noah we need to renegotiate

and they drive through that post rain shower south georgia summer afternoon and they turn off the tar and gravel road onto a dirt road rain clotted dust chunks flying behind them a dirt road that follows the field

pine trees to the right cow field to the left

follows the dirt road on around the little patch of woods where the field dogleggs on around pulls the car over under an old pecan tree sitting on the edge of the field

ding dong cling clang dingle dang

the sweet clear ringing bells draped upon their bovine necks their tones so sweetly calling oh come to the church in the dell just a back wooded side of a small cow field that steve and ron had discovered in their explorations these mushroom hunters these kit carsons of fungus they explored they farmed they were gatherers

oh the way those magic fungi just spring forward so soon after the rain pushing through piles of cow shit popping up in just such short order crying out for them to claim their magic consume their powers it is indeed a castaneda moment

and with practiced precision the four leap out of the car each with a paper bag in hand over the middle strand under the upper strand of barbed wire that separates the those from the them a hit and run mission they fan quickly across the field stopping at each prominent and steaming pile of cow shit bending over taking a quick glance ignoring the stringy white capped spaghetti looking fungus searching for that stumpy curved top with the purple edges

almost expecting the cheshire cat to be lounging atop hookah hose to lips

and upon finding it that mystical special it that nonchalant flip of the coin that sitting in the meadow daisy in hand plucking petals she loves me she loves me not who knows will this be the special one that shares its love tonight

bending over reaching just above the shit surface giving it a short sharp but loving tap and a thump leaving her with a shudder and shake birthing little truffle tripping babies dropping her spores for tomorrow's rain tomorrow's psychedelic scout harvesting the daily dose

they picks their self-determined allotted quota never picking more than they can personally consume code of honor among shroomers they pick their quota proceed on down toward savannah a couple of journey joints a couple of beers to tide them over the cuda roars down the back road

on their way to be reborn


on their way to rejoicing and singing his praises for jesus is near them and there he will stay yes yes they're happily on their way pull into the campsite before dark pitch a couple of small tents in a site beneath a large pine tree right in between an old couple with one of those fancy camper trailers and a hippie couple with sleeping bags rolled out in the back of a sixty-three chevy sidestepper

needs a paint job little bit of rust running alongside the wheel wells

they listen to music that whole night the whole night long watches them play on stage they dance stomp in the dust until midnight then hang out til three four in the morning sitting around various campfires wandering through the camp talking to those they know those they recognize but can't remember and those they have no fucking clue about hippies rednecks church-goers students farmers truckers a few navy boys up from kings bay steve and allison ron and sally

they wander they laugh they shar stories they listen to tales of bragging and woe

later that night maybe it is already morning in the tent ron loosens her halter top and ron loosens her shorts and ron picks her banjo while the fiddles moan outside til dawn when

they all go skinny dipping in the river big rope swing hanging from a big live oak out over the river rednecks with farmer's tans hippie chicks with big flopping tits swinging out in the dull coastal sun screaming swinging dropping into the black water scaring the hell out of catfish and gators and moccasins and gar alike

late afternoon fire going boiling down the mushrooms truck camping couple wander over they share smoke a joint or three or four they all peer into the skanky solution they strain out the shriveled mushroom bodies

forgive them father they know not what they do

and ron dumps in a package of pre-sweetened grape kool aide don't help much but choking that shit down without some sort of sugary somethin' somethin' gags their gut stains their souls they pour off six equal parts let it cool just a bit hold their nose gulp gulp gulp about ten minutes later ron walks back to one side of the magnolia sally goes to the other

they puke smile kiss each other on the cheek fetch a beer wander the camp

steve and allison go off with the hippie couple for a while ron and sally wander around walk down to the river walk up to the stage the front porch string band they play a corinna corinna that melts ron's heart melts his fingers and eyeballs they move in a funky chicken meets hoedown wiggle squiggle ron getting giggles from the crowd sally getting those whistling stares her cute little country mary ann titties jiggling braless beneath that grass and clay stained shirt tied up in a knot above her belly button bejeweled with

a little black daub of mud

and they slow dance to a lonesome ballad of conquered love of love lost and found and lost again of outsiders coming down from a far away land and taking what was not theirs and ron holds sally holds her rocks her listens to her fears listens to her heart listens to god strumming the fine hairs on the back of her neck

the bands leave the stage they disperse throughout the camp ron and sally along with them they find an old fiddle player keeping time with a young guitar player they find an unbroken circle they play with their fire their fire plays with them and ron and sally walk the camp walk the woods they walk the river

they walk through jerusalem just like john

walk through this home that was no longer home the trees at the edge of camp murmuring above the rustling of the leaves stirring in the early morning coastal breeze murmuring suggestive promises and threats

coyote tiptoeing tauntingly from behind the bush teeth bared hissing

what are you doing back boy why didn't you keep on going you caught that train why'd you get off

and sally holds his hand leads him through the wilderness of campfires and banjoes and drunken braggadocio and accusations and more murmurings of love lost whispers of love found leads him over behind a pile of felled logs where he can unzip and unleash a long overdue piss the violence of his stream spraying splattering against the trunk spattering down onto his ankles creating giving birth to tiny yellowish mud gobs each hanging on to a leg hair desperately clinging a thousand little dully glowing smiley faces staring up at him from within the shadows with teeny weeny glowing eyes

twinkling in the predawn

little fangs bared

who washes away with the walk back across a grassy meadow thick with the not yet morning dew grasshoppers with wings so wet they can't lift themselves to fly away mosquitos swarming for their morning meal

doubt retreats into just another wearied end of the road amusement a sigh of relief a questioning shake of the head a nodding acknowledgement to the god of sleep the bus slows to a halt he stumbles down the steps makes his way back into the light

the sun comes up and it is sunday morning

and it just ain't no time to sleep ain't got no time to quit goddamn don't they know it's time for sunday morning gospel music

sunday morning

walking through jerusalem just like john

and the sun comes up and it is a bluegrass sunday morning reserved for god and singing his praises starting with sunday morning vespers with the ringing of the church bells a glorious announcement to the day they're ringing for them all and they all gather round the alter that is the stage under the little grove of wind break poplar and they pray that their souls be free they all turn to each other they say hey

they ask one another

and how are you on this fine day within the confines of this fine church on this fine sunday morning

they kick back on that fine sunday morning ron and sally she leaning back against him in his arms he leaning back against a tree they hold each other while the singers sing the fiddlers fiddle the banjo players pick sally runs her finger along the tattoo on his forearm his tattoo a dark dark silhouette of a blackbird perched upon a sharp bowie knife a black heart plunged stuck upon its tip letting go bloody black drops onto a stained blackened banner emboldened with the stars and stripes of these here united states of america

punkabilly bluegrass gospel with a hint of last night's mushroom

they ron and sally they the filthy earth children campground dirt caked campfire soot smudged on their bare feet on their ankles and legs dirt beneath their fingernails they sing all sorts of people gathered around them they all sing they sing ballads and hymns they sing in drunken fungal baked hungover harmony they slap spoons they clap they yee haw they yahoo they get up kick up some dust singing his praises

and they steve and miz allison wander over they say hey ron and sally they say hey

and miz allison sways back and forth with her hands over her head palms open fingers splayed

and they load their things back into the barracuda and they make the slow drive home to jesup

and ron and sally snuggle into the back seat him sitting back in the corner behind the driver's seat she spread across what little was left of the back her head on his lap her dirty bare feet toes wiggling out the window

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