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

amsterdam a short tale of lost

and then there was the one where the stoned cracker once again found himself dazed and confused and a little lost yes both in his head and geographically these fucking canals they all look alike they curve and slide and he goes this way and that and he's been coming to this town for fifteen years and he still gets lost perhaps worse now more than ever maybe it's the weed maybe it's age maybe it's genetics maybe the weight of his cock throws him off balance and a ten minute walk from neumarket turned into maybe ninety even with the lovely helpful dutch boys and girls pointing him hinder and yonder and it was only when he was just about to give up claim a bench to maybe gaze into the misty neon for the remainder of the evening the morning when there she was his hotel just dropped into his lap like a drunk stripper

serendipity it just seems to look over him

ah amsterdam and all that

Man in the Woods

a re-posting...just because...

*****************


the man in the woods

he cries and i don't know why

i'm running through the redwoods the dank stank puddles around about my nostrils flaring with my geezer wind desperate breathing desperation bleating in out in out the days yes oh yes the days remember the days maybe only hours ago when the in the out it meant something else it meant the same thing else it didn't

breathe just breathe

remember when a fuck was but a fuck

the man in the woods he cries and i don't know why is he jesus does he cry for me do his tears wash over me do his tears wash away my sins does he whisper as i run by does he beseech number one number two does he sit behind door number three me i'm running by like an escaped convict running by like gayle sayers running by like a cat with a firecracker tied to his tail does he whisper do i hear sifting through his gritted teeth above the pain beneath our salvation does he tremble as he utters

father forgive him he knows not the misery he passes he knows not the misery he's left behind

like the snail trails traipsing down last night's trousers stained from the love that could have been lo a gentle weeping j'accuse no finger extended no pointing of the pelvis perhaps a nudge of the chin in my direction

i am so guilty

of not giving a shit i know i know all i want to do is run all i want to do is prance through the woods all i want to do is slip slide on out the door sprinkle me some pixie dust paint me a path run me down the rosy road to ruin turn this way turn that way spin about do the hokey pokey play ex box with my cock a doodle do dah do dah camptown racetrack five miles long long way to tipperary tippecanoe tyler too run jesse run zippity do dah zippy the pinhead twenty three skiddoo hey hey george double-you throw down a bucket of sand do the old soft shoe and

here's gee eye johnny

we don't have dick nixon to push around any more

clowns to the left of me jokers to my right here i am stuck in the middle of the redwoods with my conscience pissing against the tree his limp worm of a cock all shriveled up him shaking it viciously cursing moaning lamenting that his tears flow more easily than his stream

and the general he salutes his friends on the street with his ritual morning greeting he says with a tip o' the brim he asks

and how is the vigor of your stream today my friend

and the general he toasts his friends at dinner with the autumnal blessing he says with a tip of the flute he declares

and may the vigor of your stream be strong and powerful til your dying days

a sigh a smile a wistful look back

at love oh

what of love

i run from love while my brothers my cousins my sisters my friends who aren't my brothers who aren't my cousins who aren't my sisters who aren't my friends they crawl through the desert such sand roaches with infrared binoculars and sticks that go bang and stones that go bang bang bang really fast really loud farting a staccato hiss of bullets and bad thoughts each one with an engraved invitation to meet in hell sip a beer talk about old times hey remember

the time when i saw you sitting in your window stirring your strong coffee with that little spoon your baby on your lap

hey remember when i shot you didn't see it coming did you did you

remember when you and your screaming banshee of a tribe came running from the fiery womb you too forgot you too were running from your misery we're all running from our misery running like a nose running like your mommas hose running like whaddya gonna go see running ring around the rosy pocket full of posies goddamn we're all running i'm just putting you yeah me and these little bullets whizzing through the air

we're just

putting you out of your misery

hey remember when i shot you and you and you and you and your momma and your daddy

yes darlin' i am your daddy i eat your lunch

i run away while my brother rumbles across the desert in his mobile metal monster mashing mortals beneath betwixt breathing fire ferreting out evil whacking the mole of terrorism waiting for it to spring up elsewhere in the desert that's all right that's ok hell yeah i'll be there when you pop up bitch i can stay at code level orange forever i'll whack you back into the stone age spewing leaflets of love and democracy

vote or die cocksucker

you don't vote you got no excuse fuck your excuses i'm tired of your excuses you're only a camel fucking faggot raghead the only good raghead is a dead raghead the only good faggot is a dead faggot the only good camel is the one i stole from you slit its throat and used its blood to defile your wife

i am hellfire and yours is the burning flesh

we will leave a trail of familial deadends your father and your father's father and your father's father's father will go only backwards they will see no light there is no future for you and your kind the buck stops here ends right here end of the line buddy last stop in brooklyn dead end the bridge to nowhere has crumbled into the abyss below

i piss on your corpse because i can it don't bother me one bit i get up the next morning i go to work i am television i express my views both fair and balanced all the views fit to print spread my views like the dew does on dixie i dunk my donut i sip my tea all warm in its quilted cozy i go home to my loved ones my wife hands me my pipe my martini two olives very dry takes my coat i roll up my sleeves loosen my tie put up my feet read my paper

june come cuddle my cock what have wally and the beave done now

i will never go to eye rack i will never send my sons i will never step foot in that rotten land i don't have to go we have those that will get on that jet plane not care when they come home again and i will never i will not think of them again

never no not ever

fuck 'em

and why should i when i can run through the redwoods spread before me in their glorious splendor when i can slide down snowy slopes on broadband boards with finely honed edges arms hands extended from leopard skin goretex jumpsuits into fashionably feathery wings george clinton that old nigger got nothing on me hey look ma i'm flying and i paid two hundred dollars for the privilege and i'll do it again and again and again

wake up and piss the world is set afire give me my fiddle there is no hope



one two three



ah but there is hope there will be change

he who comes in on the one twenty from chicago a black man wearing a white hat he carries the gospel of gumbo in a slop bucket we sip of his blood he tosses the biscuits of the lowly bastard we eat of his flesh

i believe oh i do believe

in the father the son the holy ghost i stand tall give him the big hurrah the big hurrah the big hurrah three cheers i know he will absorb the twenty one gun salute bring peace to the valley he will go tell it on the mountain he will let freedom ring sweet land of liberty

can i get an amen

he has the spatula to spread democracy like sweet butter on hot from the oven bread poppin' fresh freddie's dead that's what i said

simmering simians in uniform load 'em up move 'em out keep those dogies moving roll 'em roll 'em roll 'em

rawhide

yeehah

in twenty fourteen
i took a little trip
went with colonel 'bama
along a mighty missile tip

we took a little bacon
we took a few beans
we fought the bloody banshees
in the shadow of the baghdad queen

we fired our guns
and they kept a'comin'
not quite as many as there was a while ago

we fired once more
and they began a'runnin'
down the euphrates to the persian gulf and all the way back to the stone age to bedrock hanging with fred and wilma barney and betty way over down around the mountain when she comes swing low sweet chariot coming forth to carry me home down by the river through the woods across the rubble in afghanistan and and and we chase 'em yeah we chase 'em leave the fires raging behind us ain't got time for no sunni shiite kurdish bullshit gonna leave this war behind us exit stage right heavens to murgatroy this is a bad war this is a no no war this is a fucked up war we got voted out of this war we gots no time for this war we got no time to go home ain't got no time to drop by give june a smooch a solid pokin' get me a little strokin' we gots to find us a better war we got to find other peoples to kill and smoke and whack and slice and dice and strap down to a board

ah the cool cool water

and lot's wife she turned toward sodom she saw the wickedness crumble behind her lo tho lot beseeched her to close her eyes to swing her head she bore witness to god's evil and god made her into a pillar of salt

goddamn god his guns his gutless wonder

oh there's hope there will be change

my brother who is not my brother crawling through the poppies poppin' caps in pakistani puds pulling black sacks over the heads of bad guys as they disappear

from even themselves

oh i believe i do believe i believe that he that comes before us waving his hands pointing at those behind him with dismay and disappointment

he who is so well spoken

black orpheus stand atop your mountain in your flowing robes tell me you are different tell me that you will make a difference i just won't believe you until the wars have stopped they've never worked there's never been a good war there's never been a just war black orpheus stand atop your mountain in your flowing robes tell me you will make a difference show me you make a difference because until you do until you put some wind behind that flag you wave

i giess i will simply saunter on by keep running on past my

man in the woods

as he cries and i still won't know why

i still won't give a shit it just hurts too much

i'll run through the redwoods the dank stank puddles around about my nostrils desperate for fresh air cigarettes more soothing than more of the same bleating in out in out remembering the days to come the days that could have been yes the days maybe only hours ago when the in the out it had meant something else had meant the same thing else it didn't i will need to remember to

breathe just breathe

remember when a fuck was but a fuck and all that

Jesup, Part the Eleventh

and on monday 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 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 ron he relaxes watching the morning clock tick tock if he smoked he'd be smoking if he knew where to buy heroin if he knew one could really buy heroin here in jesup he'd probably be running it up 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 too he ron he relaxes finds his zone finds his daytime nocturnal 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 syrupy 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 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 a 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 a plaster of paris mold 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 sitting upside 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 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

Jesup, part the tenth

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 anne 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 cheshire cat style 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 annie 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 few hundred yards down the road 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 a 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 exhales out the window

Jesup, part the ninth

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 headed over toward a little bit of someplace not far 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 hopped into his buddy stevie's white barracuda along with miz annie green

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 annie green's back yard

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

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

as if god himself were 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 drove through that south georgia summer afternoon rain shower and they turned off the tar and gravel road onto a dirt road rain clotted dust chunks flying behind them a dirt road that followed the field pine trees to the right cow field to the left followed the dirt road on around the little patch of woods where the field doglegged on around pulled 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 sprung 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 was indeed a castaneda moment

and with practiced precision the four leapt out of the car each with a paper bag in hand over the middle strand under the upper strand of barbed wire that separated the those from the them a hit and run mission they fanned 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 picked their self-determined allotted quota never picked more than they could personally consume code of honor among shroomers they picked their quota proceeded on down toward savannah a couple of journey joints a couple of beers to tide them over the cuda roared down the back road

on their way to be reborn

happy

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 pulled into the campsite before dark pitched 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

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

they listened to music that whole night the whole night long watched them play on stage they danced stomped in the dust until midnight then hung out til three four in the morning sitting around various campfires wandering through the camp talking to those they knew those they recognized but couldn't remember and those they had no fucking clue about hippies rednecks church-goers students farmers truckers a few navy boys up from kings bay steve and annie ron and sally

they wandered they laughed they shared stories they listened to tales of bragging and woe

later that night maybe it was morning in the tent ron loosened her halter top and ron loosened her shorts and ron picked her banjo while the fiddles moaned outside til dawn when

they all went 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 wandered over they shared smoked a joint or three or four they all peered into the skanky solution they strained out the shriveled mushroom bodies

forgive them father they know not what they do

and ron dumped in a package of pre-sweetened grape kool aide didn't help much but choking that shit down without some sort of sugary somethin' somethin' gagged their gut stained their souls they poured off six equal parts let it cool just a bit held their nose gulp gulp gulp about ten minutes later ron walked back to one side of the magnolia sally went to the other

they puked smiled kissed each other on the cheek fetched a beer wandered the camp

steve and miz annie went off with the hippie couple for a while ron and sally wandered around walked down to the river walked up to the stage the front porch string band they played a corinna corinna that melted ron's soul melted his fingers and eyeballs they moved 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 danced to a lonesome ballad of the conquered of love and love lost of outsiders coming down from a far away land and taking what was not theirs and ron held sally held her rocked her listened to her fears listened to her heart listened to god strumming the fine hairs on the back of her neck

the bands left the stage they dispersed throughout the camp ron and sally along with them they found an old fiddle player keeping time with a young guitar player they found an unbroken circle they played with their fire their fire played with them and ron and sally walked the camp walked the woods they walked the river

they walked through jerusalem just like john

walked 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 held his hand led him through the wilderness of campfires and banjoes and drunken braggadocio and accusations and murmurings of love of lost lost of love found led him over behind a pile of felled logs where he could 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 smiley faces staring up at him from within the shadows with teeny weeny glowing eyes

twinkling in the predawn

little fangs bared

and then washed 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 them to fly away mosquitos swarming for their morning meal

doubt retreated 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 slowed to a halt he stumbled down the steps made his way back into the light

the sun came up and it was sunday morning

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 came up and it was 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 kicked back on that fine sunday morning ron and sally she leaning back against him in his arms he leaning back against a tree they held each other while the singers sang the fiddlers fiddled the banjo players picked sally ran 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 sang all sorts of people gathered around them they all sang they sang ballads and hymns they sang in drunken fungal baked hungover harmony they slapped spoons they clapped they yee hawed they yahoo'd they got up kicked up some dust singing his praises

and they steve and annie green wandered over they said hey ron and sally they said hey

and miz annie swayed back and forth with her hands over her head palms open fingers splayed

and they loaded their things back into the barracuda and they made the slow drive home to jesup

ron and sally snuggled 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