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

Jesup, part the eighth

and the dull gold electra two twenty five white vinyl top with a little rust showing down around the back window a little more over there right beneath the driver side door the deuce and a quarter pulled into a parking spot across the street the door opening with a squealing creak that leapt over to ron and his mom with a familiar splat followed by a long squeaky pull

kind of like a frog tongue suddenly smacking a fly across the lily pad then taking its time

reeling it in

the long low scream of the fly beneath the breeze fading fading to nothing as it approaches the waiting amphibian gulp

ron's daddy's cowboy boots stepping out one at a time boots covered by crinkled khakis going all the way up mister johnson's granddaddy longlegs hanging on to his skinny frame by a wide rawhide threaded leather belt gripping a big buckle image of a fanged fat faced drooling ugga the georgia bulldog the apostle of all that is good in the state that he serves at the pleasure of vince dooley his lord and master who will sit at the right hand of god hisself when his time comes due vince dooley of whom it is said that every win that has come during his reign is due to this special direct relationship any possible loss is the fault of satanic intervention at a magnitude against which even god's apostle has difficulty defending

ron's daddy mister johnson he looks both ways less as a matter of courtesy than out of necessity he spits he crosses the street with lanky rubber band man steps he tightens the knot of his skinny tie as he hops up the stairs kisses ron's momma on the cheek lightly but with a generosity not lost on ron he sees her eyes they sparkle just a bit through the worry he ron's dad he looks at ron he looks at ron's momma he looks back at ron he says hey now you ready to go in get this thing over with ron he nods he's still looking out across the lawn they each look out over the lawn mister johnson ron johnson's momma ron johnson they all look out over the lawn mister johnson

he says well

and they turn and walk on into the courthouse the heavy door opening inward a slit of light expanding into a framed gentle beam the ghosts of a thousand souls float and twinkle in the sudden brightness sparkling dust caught dancing in the lightest of drafts a giggling gaggle of mischievous faeries frozen fiercely en flagrante and the door closes and the elven magic disappears fades into the cruel dank coolness that is this heartless objectivity of the law

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

a love supreme

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

and months before this musty courthouse stroll before the band began its august sonata the spring it would come and bring its showers and flowers and humidity and heat and memories and moonshine and love and lust and it would bring in the month of june

that month of hope that month of beginnings and endings of weddings and funerals

and ron he would travel south from the big city he would cross the line he would make his way across the creek that defined the here from the there he would broach the divide of yesterday and tomorrow of forgiveness and damnation

and ron would come home at the end of spring quarter beginning of summer break he had a job lined up he was going to work with his friend bobby over at bobby's daddy's store the jesup feed and seed

and ron would come home and bring all his belongings clean out his dorm room stuff everything he could fit into the big old trunk an army footlocker his old man had bought him at the local surplus store

and ron would come home with his belongings which besides his clothes included only a desk lamp his stereo his album collection his portable typewriter his rolled up skynrd posters his three bongs small medium and large the large one hidden in wrapped up in his sleeping bag and the other two in his back pack

and ron would come home with his belongings including his clothes two pairs of jeans two pairs of cut offs a bathing suit his momma had bought him but that he had never worn one steal your face and an assortment of punk rock emblazoned tee shirts acquired at various concerts during the year his blue jean jacket and his ten pairs each of permanently penned and john hancocked underwear tee shirts and white calf high socks

and ron would come home to jesup for the summer home again home again jiggety jig jiggety jig indeed returning to town in the backseat of the johnson family station wagon his mom and dad up front mister johnson leaning forward left ear over the steering wheel trying to detect some click some clack some serious sound seemingly hailing from beneath the dash from the front of the car but ron could hear the same burping growl coming from behind him where he knew the faux wood panel peeled from the rear door in long thin strips curling away from the muffler's gradually blackening exhaust as it parrumphed and harrumphed

belched and blew

ron johnson had returned to jesup trumpets blaring

Jesup, part the seventh

ron he'd come driving over late in the evening he'd find sally about to leave her friends those friends of sally that ron didn't really know jesup being small but rather cliquish and set in its ways

and sally

she would be about to leave

this crowd her friends

she'd hop in the truck his truck they'd drive off sometimes to the river sometimes they'd go to her house if perhaps her parents were off away for the day or if only for a few hours out of town down at the lakehouse

her house her home a big rambling two story with a wrap around porch set in the middle of what used to be an old pecan grove

they'd run up the wide staircase to her room her room all the way upstairs in the converted attic with the peaked ceilings and dormers providing pockets and nooks and crannies for the day's heat to settle and simmer and their clothes would be off before they hit the last step and they would fall upon her bed together arms around each other grabbing at each other and they would fuck long and giggling loud and they would have at it with wild wiggling abandon crazy old fashioned teenage fucking rolling around on the white cotton sheets swimming through the clouds of humidity sweat pouring from bodies all a'blur stirring sweat and semen and spit and venom and juices of all sorts into a frothy attempt

to find the love

that should have been that was supposed to have been

that could have been

Jesup, parth the sixth

and the next day he was in the back seat of the family station wagon his stereo a trunk and a couple of suitcases in the back

off to atlanta on his way to the new world his new world where he would find his path

off to spend a year in school

where his keseyesque dreams of freedom and love and peaceful coexistence picked up from random library visits where he accidentally picked up the electric kool aid acid test because the title sounded kind of hip and different from well-intended and idealistic teachers from his weekly viewing of love american style all of these dreams would slam into the fucking late seventies all about me i'm ok you're ok graduates of the covenant yes the promise that they had made to ron and his kin back in the sixties when they were listening when they believed the hippies when the sign said long haired freaky people need not apply when they said they were going to change the world age of aquarius there's gonna be a revolution power to the people right on then

they the hippies they these revolutionaries

they got tired of fighting the world they just became the world broke the covenant nineteen seventy seven they had broken their promise and ron johnson on his way to atlanta to go to college

spend the school year in atlanta

where he tried to love the dead but some new found cynicism would get beneath his skin seep into his blood he tried to love the dead but he had been exposed infected invisible spores of anthraxian doubt permeated his miracle his suspicious heart fell in with the pistols and the clash and the stooges and he got a tattoo and

it was harsh and

it was daring but

he still managed to find sally's name in his darkness

and then jesus hell he got left behind after ron's first taste of crystal clear liquid love dripped dropped beneath the tongue just a little dabba do ya plop plop fizz fizz oh what a relief it is hop on the bus tune in turn on jesus hell he wasn't so much left behind as he simply joined the card game like any other schmuck and

ron would accuse the hippies of treasonous high crimes and

ron would find hope in on the road redemption in naked lunch resurrection in gravity's rainbow and forgiveness in basketball diaries

his president his fellow georgian he held lust in his heart for fuck's sake ron he held his lust gripped in his hand

strong like bull

and ron would flirt with the college girls at the dorm parties down at everybody's pizza where they would guzzle beers and play quarters and wales tales and sneak drunken winks and tickled toes and invitations to go join her outside to share a joint next morning find himself sneaking out of alabama hall

sometimes with his momma monogrammed underwear in hand

sometimes with hers

but that had happened only a couple of times maybe four or five some vicious drunken rutting in the stalls

love maybe it was stronger

he'd go back to jesup on some weekends before thanksgiving and then during the winter it became harder to break away and then springtime in atlanta oh sugar oh baby ain't nothing like springtime in atlanta when the dogwoods bloom and the robins sing and the dew settles back on the green green grass in the late evening and

the coeds unveil in lullwater park

but he'd still make it home every now and then he'd still make it home and he and sally they'd get together

he'd find his way home every now and then he'd make his way back to jesup something about it had a hold on him he'd end classes on friday something would tug at him sort of like the feeling to light up a cigarette nobody told him he had to nobody told him he needed to he'd just walk off campus to where he parked his old truck open the door turn the key and head on home sometimes not telling anyone he'd just show up in jesup his momma wouldn't know his daddy wouldn't know his friends he would find the crowd wasn't that difficult not like there were a lot of place to go his friend they'd go hey ron like of course he was supposed to be there like it was

just another friday night

and he'd end up hanging with his friends doing the shit that he and his friends did and toward the end of the night when things would wind down he'd go find her he'd find sally and they'd get together

and they'd fuck

they would make out and they would touch each other and they would pinch and tickle each other and kiss and bite and nibble and giggle

and they would fuck

sometimes they would fuck in his truck parked down by the river out through the woods back in that little clearing where one night when it was raining and they couldn't get into the back when they stayed in the cab and the steam from the outside and the steam from the inside caused the metal roof to sweat and drip and in the dusky dawn of the dashboard light scramble her sandled foot had knocked off the rear view mirror and where she'd bumped her head on the steering wheel and raised a whelp so big next day she had to brush her hair back into an off kilter pony tail claim to her mother that it was fashion

during these times these weekends these holidays they didn't talk much at all they hardly ever spoke had no time for conversation the notion of the spoken word of language lost to the nuance of whimper and moan there was no room for any such see spot run

ron he'd come driving over after having been hanging with his friends where he'd been drinking and smoking and bragging and cussing and spitting and doing the same things that they had always done that those that had come before them had done thy kingdom come thy will be done

sometimes guns would be involved if maybe one of them pulled out a q-beam and started spotting varmints their beady little eyes glowing out from the woods maybe a opossum maybe a raccoon maybe an armadillo someone would have a pistol someone would have a twenty-two rifle or a thirty thirty taken from the rack of their truck someone would have a shotgun there'd be a cacophony a staccato of shots followed by the cannon like blast of the twelve-gauge overkill a haze of blue smoke hanging in the darkness the sharp sulfur stinging

the eyes would disappear

dead or alive into the peaty distance they never knew they never cared on earth as it is in heaven

sometimes there'd be fights crazy clumsy swinging stumbling bloody fights if quaaludes had been consumed and quaaludes were often consumed so there were a lot of fights a little vitamin q coupled with a few beers combined with a natural ornery tendency to say what one thought at any given time with an especially blunt drunken honesty drowned in self-important judgement of one's sister one's girlfriend one's momma and grandmomma

hey i like your black loafers speaking of black loafers how's your old man

ah geeze

sorry man that was a dirty crack shit speaking of dirty cracks how's your old lady

and a punch would be thrown and another and a circle would form and a nose would be bloodied and an eye would go red to black and blue and they would knock the shit out of each other knock each other into a pulpy mess of methaqualone mystery oblivious and numb to the pain confused by the blood streaming into their eyes by the gap formed from a suddenly missing tooth by the mask of spun sugar threads wrapping around their minds with a seven fourteen blanket

pummeling

pummeling

with bloodied knuckles that would swell to bursting the next morning

pummeling each other amidst cheers jeers and beers until one would fall into the arms of his mate collapse into an exhausted embrace then someone would step out from the circle and he would nobly say in that good old boy meets john wayne the peacemaker voice he would say oh kay boys let's break it up before someone gets really hurt

and they would all laugh except the one on the receiving end of the ass kicking he'd be glowering staring at the crowd with that fucking stink eye muttering oaths of revenge

he is a just god he is a vengeful god

but most of the times they'd just tell lies and half truths about fishing and fucking mostly about fucking the who the when the how many times the did she swallow and yeah every now and then yeah

on occasion

sometimes

an honest emotion or fear would float around

like when the subject came around to vance he'd died last summer he'd died last summer in a fucked up way he got really drunk he had a fast car big yellow chevelle with black stripes big tires

wheels that said i'll fuck you leaning over a pine log stretched out in the middle of the meadow in a rainstorm

vance in his yellow chevelle screaming down the road the road curved left yance forgot to follow fucking big ass oak tree defining the bend absorbing the car caressing the chrome crushing the cranium

a bodily trauma on a grand scale

ron's friend billy he says yeah i hear they found his tongue bit clear off found it stuck up on the tree

then they'd be quiet for a while not silent but quiet a quiet sigh exhaled a quiet gaseous burp swallowed a quiet glance around

then

those that went away would talk about how they missed the place but can't see coming back those that stayed behind just not understanding what it was that anyone needed to do anyplace not getting why anyone needed to go outside of jesup georgia

and a couple or three or four that had gone away to the university in athens where their daddies had gone before them their daddies already being the town lawyer the town doctor the town pharmacist they planning to return to step into their daddies' shoes they not really saying much they usually being one of the over-luded prize fighters oft times the muttering one sitting apart from the crowd licking his wounds

Jesup, part the fifth

goddamn he missed sally she a year younger she going through her senior year of high school while he had entered the world leaving her behind

that last night on the court house lawn a sunday night the moon dull the stars covered by a thin layer of clouds late enough so that most of the street lights had extinguished their hissing candescence late enough that the mosquitoes had long since retired back to the swamp to fuck breed procreate repopulate on the murky waters late enough that the occasional heat lightening would light up the outside of the courthouse with some time elapsed strobe light beckoning the beginning of a black and white horror movie on tee vee in the early early morning the sound turned all the way down

they had walked along the sidewalk hand in hand the soft pre-dew grass beckoning to them from beneath the shadows of the magnolia they glancing left right behind scurrying across the lawn behind the tree at first leaning against the smooth bark ron pressed up against sally kissing her a sailor about to ship out she promising to wait he promising to write both promising anything that would provide the excuse to move to the next base

ron's hand up and under her tee shirt her small pert breasts wanting needing no bra ron's hands lifting the soft cotton skirt sliding slipping down into the soft cotton panties her legs spreading bowlegged she going onto her tippy toes opening up providing succor to the lost the desperate

both of them sliding sliding she scraping her back on the bark as she slipped down onto her ass ron onto his knees their lips never parting she pulling at the buttons on his shirt

mumbling whispers of encouragement cracker love songs beneath the magnolia ron softly proclaiming her beauty as she unveiled it her flat stomach a swirling portico of welcome he expressing his admiration of each nipple as his tongue darted back and forth

slowing down as his lips approached her soft tanned throat taking a moment touching her vulnerability his fingers softly about the only innocence she had left the lightest of touches a tear drops from his dope reddened eyes her eyes give way to a momentary note of surprise of concern before he murmurs his love

Jesup, part the fourth

friday night end of school hanging yeah just hanging around chugging a couple of beers toking on a joint or two

he had met up with sally

where she would slide right up next to him hop up into his truck slip across the bench seat her tanned thigh touching his she'd cause him to have that same nervous shiver oh how he fumbled how he knows he'd still be fumbling if he could

his grin that night a drunken stoned ear to ear wide and toothy and full of expectation and hope

sweet sally oh such sweetness she the honey in his tea long straight hair not blonde not brown depending on the seasons seasoned by the sun such curves oh so hot not by the way she looks but how she carries her look

this south georgia hippie chick sometimes in her peasant blouse and cut off jeans sometimes in a soft tee and a wispy skirt sometimes in her overhauls and tube top the buttons open on one side the top strap longer on the other giving an admirer just that briefest glimpse of sugary seventies small tit cleavage soft and inviting

carries that look around most of the times barefoot dainty white angel feet those little piggies always out going to the market scurrying about the dry dusty ground happy as can be happy as someone could ever be

ron he wonders how it's possible that he could be so happy around that cute little bottle of bubble up ron he wonders if he'll ever feel that way again god how it might feel to be that happy all the time god how it might be not to know the sadness of her missing from his side from within his arms

the loneliness of a long atlanta winter in the dorms with all these boys from parts unknown to him these boys who just don't understand

what a boy has to do to become a man

all these boys from new york and new jersey and miami and cleveland driving their daddy bought cars wearing their momma bought clothes so easy to come upon such things that just show up not even on their birthdays not even on christmas these boys their mommas don't even bother to use the permanent marker to write their names on their underwear making sure when they go off to school with ten pair of drawers they come home with ten pair of drawers

these boys whose mommas probably brought them breakfast in bed every morning interrupting their weak masturbatory efforts around tucked away playboys and penthouses whose mommas wiped their ass with extra soft tissue right up to the day they left for college

he could tell by the way they walked from the bathroom down the dorm hallway kind of pigeon toed to keep their asscheeks from rubbing

these boys who never did understand who could never know in their bones the tragedy the hole left in their hearts lynrd skynrd ceased to be ronnie van zandt and his plane falling from the sky into those fiery woods the unused tickets from the concert that was never to be pinned up on the cork board above his desk that saddest of sad

last autumn

ron's first fall away from sally his first quarter away at school

that morning before classes after a night of the usual beers and bongs the news came across the radio a little matter of fact announcement a little interruption on ninety six rock dubya kay ell ess atlanta it had sliced him like a paper cut deep and sudden and painless until he saw the trickle of blood him standing there in the middle of the room his towel wrapped round his waist drops of water beading up on his shoulders dripping from his hair he saw the blood that unexplained loss

he remembers assorted words

skynrd

private plane

mississippi

crash

fire

van zandt dead

rossington collins barely alive

hoss sitting on the edge of the bunk his head in his hands looking up at him

they didn't speak they couldn't speak hoss he took budweisers out of the mini fridge popped the tops ron he loaded the gatlin bong they stacked all five skynrd albums on the turntable even the brand new street survivors hoss had just picked it up the day before they'd be talking about the prophecy for weeks that endless leisure time called youth the frivolity of philosophy the time and will to grieve they played them all the way through flipped them over played them through again over and over

lather rinse repeat

until a day later after having sat their southern shiva unshaven stoned and drunk they arose from the dead and ascended into the hallways to find the puzzled stares of those others in the dorm this dorm populated with exiles nay interlopers from new york new jersey miami cleveland ron and hoss outsiders in their own state

these trespassers could not gather the depth of their loss ron and hoss made no attempt to explain hell a simple man he don't need them around anyhow ron and hoss

american by birth southern by the grace of god

goddamn

these pussies who listened to those faggots billy joel and paul simon repackaged lounge lizards whose mommas also probably most likely wiped their asses as well

how could they understand when ron and hoss could barely grok the shifting of the winds how could any of them know that the old freak who parked himself daily on the uptown corner right there where ponce meets peachtree like out of some comic strip an old hippie an old man holding the sign declaring the end of world how could he have known such truths

such prescience frightened and humbled ron johnson

they these guys don't even know didn't understand that ron and hoss could give a shit about flight kay ay el double oh seven about the fucking war in ethiopia about israel and egypt about israel and lebanon these guys who couldn't understand what ron and hoss knew aw hell that israel invading lebanon mattered about as much as karl wallenda taking that last and fatal fall from the high wires shit happens you buy the ticket you take the ride you build a house out there in the desert some strong wind gonna come down blow you around

Jesup, part the third

and ron walks up next to his momma he leans over and gently kisses her on the cheek she lightly touches the back of his head she stretches up oh so slightly she whispers in his ear that his daddy is on his way ron nods slides his hands into his pockets squeezes himself between stiffened arms and extended double jointed elbows and shivers

a nervous shiver with goosebumps and a brittle grin

she takes his arm she looks up at him while he looks out across the courthouse lawn across the street the screen door to luretta's cafe banging open and shut open and shut as a couple of guys in stained coveralls wander out big quart size styrofoam cups with lids and straws in one hand white paper bags crumpled up hanging from the other

they step up and into a big international truck with ricks of freshly cut logs piled on high an engine fires sputters belches roars the truck crawls down the road out of town dipping down plopping down into and then bouncing up out of the big pothole on the side of the road as they make the turn the logs swaying against the ricks

the last ron sees is the fuzzy grizzled face of the driver leaning over the steering wheel one hand holding his cup and wheel at the same time one hand he guessed on the stick shift his head bouncing on the straw like some cheap valium pumped peachtree whore going down on a pencil dicked geek from georgia tech every time he changed gears

ron and his momma gaze after them the burps of smoke squirting out of the tail pipe

gazing after the truck gazing up into the sky gazing down at their feet ron's old brogans his mom's lime green espadrilles soft pink toenails exposed gazing pretty much at anything other than each other

waiting just waiting

gazing out over the bit of official looking lawn stretching down to the street new brunswick street that tees into cavendish square this wayne county courthouse lawn this lawn where last summer the end of last summer the night before he was taking off for school after he had been hanging with his classmates some of whom were going to altamaha technical college some of whom were going down the road to georgia southern some headed off to the university most just hanging around trying to find jobs maybe a little logging maybe a little farming

hanging around lying about the good old days

hey remember when john thomas drove his truck down into the pond took the left when he should have taken the right took us all night to wench that fucker out yeah remember when bennie drove his truck over all them mailboxes off of twenty seven yeah if it hadn't been for those boxes he might have gone on off into the drainage ditch might have turned that fucker over heh we had a few that night hey remember when stevie took all them ludes and picked a fight with those waycross boys he got the shit kicked out of his redneck self yeah but he got in a few shots they left with a few marks

yeah

hey remember when denzer shot himself in the head with that shotgun when that girl broke his heart

yeah

remember when

yeah

Jesup, part the second

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 reflecting heavy and dull on this morning echoing a flat note

this somber 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 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 unleashed his passion for learning within those hallowed halls

ron johnson who had been known to run naked through the corridors of dobbs hall bong in hand acid on his brain a brown farmer's tan contrasting against pasty pale skin reddish pubic hairs freckly puss

he ron johnson no he had not yet found his path ron johnson who once walked into the dorm one night

he and his friend 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 bud decorating peter frampton's blondish tresses projecting him further into some sort of three dimensional jesus wearing the crown of thorns

chrono bong in hand he says looking up he says click click clicking his bic he says hey click click clicking his bic he says taking a moment to gurgle up some smoky salvation he says hey want to play a little twenty one we're about to put on the album

twenty one being the number of minutes a certain lou reed song would steal from the clock start to finish twenty one also being the number of bong hits one was expected to complete to execute before that last audible downbeat of said lou reed song

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

ron and hoss 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 saying what the fuck happened to you where the fuck you been they shuffling they rubbing their hands together on their pants into their pockets then together again ron he saying

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

he saying

we hopped a train

eyes wide eyebrows raised lighter poised above the bowl

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 don't you know like we were cassidy and kerouac with an ethereal plan with a command from elijah here comes this freight train slowing down as it rounded the bend coming into campus down near the old depot this rust colored box car cries out to us 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 either obtained with a doctored up fake scrip next door at plaza drug

its big sliding door already open like an invitation to my cousin's sweet sixteen spread her legs party we thought we'd just jump on go a couple of miles down the track then hop off catch the next one coming this way get back to campus all in a couple of hours next thing we know we're rushing through the 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're well into alabama

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

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

goddamn train so 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

stumbling out into the frosty dawn when the 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 the glimpse of an empty bama state patrol car parked fifty yards away over by some depot looking shack

a slim stream of smoke or steam sliding out of and up from a rusted pipe snaking out of nailed to its ashen wooden side

an old nigra man wearing two sunday coats a brown felt bowler and boots with no strings came out between two trains we asked him we said hands tucked deep into our pockets shoulders hunched up around our ears we said excuse me we said hey can you tell us which train goes back to atlanta we said hey

which way is home

he stopped he looked around he looked at us he looked at the direction from where we 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

he didn't say a word he thought a minute he shrugged he started walking again

he stopped he pointed

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

that was yesterday we just got back

chrono he shrugging he flicking his bic he fellating the bong he looking up saying his words flowing into and out of a cloud of ganjaesque concern he saying

whoa welcome home

ron and hoss they each taking 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

Jesup, part the first

the humidity sits heavily upon the wiregrass and pines around the spanish bayonets that nobly slash and tear through the low hanging puffiness that threatens to smother that threatens to empty their vigor upon the day pushing the humidity through within amidst the spanish moss floating from the cedar the cypress graying vessels of ghosts of ancestors and friends of souls unrequited a humidity that hovers above pressing down upon the two-lane blacktop that bisects the whole lot of them the wiregrass the pines the cedar the cypress 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

wiregrass and pines everywhere looking out the window splotches of wiregrass leading right up to the line of pine soldiers a thousand deep marching down through georgia on their way to the coast 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 wiregrass 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 called it home some called it theirs

some called only to get a busy signal

some called 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 before 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

ron's grandmomma she spits at the mere mention of general william tecumseh sherman

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

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 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 bog 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're casually dislodged 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 opened 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 jay bee stoner and 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 these others over the last few years drunken high school volunteers 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

A bit like that...

strolling along the sidewalk the streetlights fading as does the time the coolness of the evening bringing the slightest of a sting no not a sting a bite no not quite a bite more of a nibble a sharp little nibble on her cheek that same cheek whose rosy coolness i want to feel to taste on my lips

strolling along the sidewalk walking arm in arm her hand looped through my arm such a gentleman i should be wearing a top hat and tails i should be laying down my cape across the end of evening puddles so silently settled into the concave bosoms of the path those ripples of the next day that threaten the heels of her sexy shoes those heels that whisper that murmur in a tapping staccato code

yes come on
yes it's ok

just give me a nudge tip me over a little let me stumble to the ground

yes it's ok
yes come on
take me

quickly

and yes these heels a little too high for the walk the walk a little too uneven with its nooks and crannies and possibilities the night a little too late perhaps the morning a little too early

stumbling through the chilled mist yeah it's a bit like that

the night at our heels the evening in our wake the world ahead of us in front of us the dark before the dawn settled in between

me the perfect gentleman i should be wearing a top hat and tails i could be swearing my love through these tales i would be sharing this sweet bed of nails

if only oh if only

we had the time because yeah it's a bit like that

and men who last saw sobriety hours days ago sit in the doorways lift their crinkled paper bags toward olympus toast the romance of the evening the swagger of love the stagger of blood they lend witness provide testament to the gift of the gods the benediction of bedlam within the heart

my heart

that infatuation that drives a man to silliness that leads to giggles and grins that opens to an opiated lack of regard for anything anyone else the rest of the world blurred and crisp that myopia of desire strips me of my sins scrubs my conscience of right and wrong i am in a persistent state of anticipation of tingling lingering limbo

the clickety click click of a lone bicycle coasting down the slight slope the tar and gravel asphalt moaning its complaint joining the cooing of starlings the stars whistling the slightest screeching streetcar metal on metal from blocks away

but still i hear her smile

i do

i hear her smile

leaves of peppermint dancing in the wind flittering fluttering a soft flute a razor's edge

she shakes the mist from her short blonde hair a sparkling a twinkling a soft ballet of tinkerbells in the breeze crystal chimes plinking the strings of air baptizing my soul holy water droplets sprinkled from jesus' cunt

the girl the woman the holy ghost

blessed be her name her kingdom come her will be done

that girl she is my heaven

i her messenger her apostle her witness her virgin her sacrifice on the altar of what is to be i will write her gospel deep dark verses of the one true church

and the chill of the air sends her closer both her hands looped through my arm her head tucked between chin and throat her cheek on the cashmere of my coat her vaporous breath blowing clouds of joy little ethereal bubbles cartoonish word balloons with little necco sweetheart candy sayings evaporating into the night

kiss me
sweet talk
be mine

i'm looking for a streetlight a bench perhaps a chalk drawing on the walkway i want to be her dick van dyke tap tap dancing along the precipice of her inner thighs a wondrous technicolor extravaganza where we hold hands count to three and leap from the edge

unafraid

and i sing

yes
i sing

what a lovely 'oliday with you girl what a lovely 'oliday indeed

an animated adventure with vandals and thieves villains of a dastardly simon whiplashly soul i am her dudley do-right she my nell i will rescue her from the oncoming train release her from the ties that bind

and even the mannequins in the store windows nipples alert smiles demure gazing out into some nighttime daydream even the mannequins in the store window they yawn

just a bit
only so slightly

but just enough to infect us to spread it around first me then her a familiar comfort

a smittering a smattering
a pittering a pattering
a destination reached

a longing a lingering
a smile a clinging
such a delicate peach

a last kiss on the cheek

an opening of the door

me the perfect gentleman i should be wearing a top hat and tails i could be swearing my love through these tales i would be sharing this sweet bed of nails

if only oh if only

we had the time and all that