Jesup, part the twentieth

well into the evening atlanta evening maybe midnightish early summer late spring this sky these clouds these wispy shadows that hang between the stars like marionettish buzzards waiting to feast on our rotting carrion dreams their puppeteers our gods sighing deeply a resigned june heaviness

whispering hoarsely

a sultry weight refusing to move ignoring the slight barely noticeable breeze that flutters the fresh newly born green oak leaves

under which gathered ron johnson and his friends his cohorts his partners in crime sitting about in begged borrowed stolen chairs from the dorm from dobbs hall sitting about in chairs in the little courtyard beneath the ancient oak dripping with spanish moss all stereotypically southern in its setting before and above the slabs of weather worn italian marble itself peppered with speckles and freckles of moss and shoots of crabgrass

slapping at the gnats and mosquitos and moths that flitted in out about the two lamplights at the edge and in either corner of the courtyard rubbing at eyes ears and nostrils when one of the little fuckers manages to find its way through the defenses

fists to the air middle fingers pointed to the lamplight that is their sun the center of their universe screaming drat you red baron as they kamikaze into human orifices

it is the last night of school the last night of their first year their freshman year at that fine institution of higher learning that is emory university that sits up on its hill among all its ivy-clad libraries and coca cola finery

idyllic

the moon large and bright over the far buildings a cocktease of summer hope and expectation crushed like the dewless lawn twixt their toes

amidst the quiet of the evening

an occasional hey the train that was fucking funny as hell

what the fuck were you thinking

hey pass that over here

hey whoa hey whoa hey wow

hey saw you sneaking out of suzanne’s room last night you better hope that fucking es aa ee of a boyfriend don’t find out

hey what you doing this summer well me and steve we’re going to europe going to bang around how about you dunno i think i got a job downtown wall street my dad’s firm

amidst the quiet of the evening

occasionally someone would go walking by from the sidewalk into the dorm or out of the dorm onto the sidewalk a giggle a chuckle once a sob from a sweet coed walking away from dobbs arms crossed beneath her breasts suspended in the gentle sling formed by her halter top her chin down bobbing between caught breaths long straight hair hanging low hiding her face

the glow of a joint passes around the circle of chairs an inadvertent ring surrounding an imaginary firepit a gravitational pull sufficient enough to keep them tight the centrifugal force of their spinning heads keeping them from falling away into the nighttime confusion

that chaos that upon the morrow will be their world

Jesup, part the nineteenth, courthouse

the click the clack of high heels against marble floor echoed up through the stairwell and down the hallway love and rockets in any other world but this morning as all three heads turn ron johnson’s his momma’s his daddy’s their heads all turn at once they know it is their aunt betty and his lawyer the only woman lawyer in jesup aunt betty she plays bridge with her on wednesday evenings over at the country club

aunt betty wearing that purple dress suit matching little bitty perched on hat the outfit she’s been wearing to church this summer ron johnson he wonders like he always wonders just where in sam hill his aunt betty finds these things

probably the same place his attorney finds hers she miss wilma watkins a graduate of mercer university and mercer university law school over in macon back before otis redding back before duane allman maybe back when ray charles miss wilma watkins she who is all done up in this post retro marlo thomas that girl break loose be free in a man’s world bright blue with black trim and ron johnson he swears to god that same fucking hat that she that girl tossed to the wind on her tee eve show

and she carries a brief case and is listening to aunt betty go on about something she miss wilma she has a pensive look on her face she isn’t really saying anything and they walk up to the bench and ron johnson and his momma and his daddy they stand up to greet them and there’s the niceties the how do you do yes it’s warm out how’s your father miss wilma he’s fine thank you but listen

we need to talk

and there’s this scene change the music it changes maybe it had been changing all along just too subtly for ron johnson to notice but now there’s a harp moaning long and slow and the hooting of an owl

where’s the owl

it’s morning the sun it shines

fuck

how can it be so bright on such a day

and the camera it swings wide and slowly it pans circling the five of them as they come together they talk miss wilma she talks she’s talking to ron johnson’s daddy to ron johnson’s momma she’s telling them things judge’s decision judge’s offer she’s answering questions aunt betty she’s asking maybe she’s saying aunt betty she says

that’s it

ron johnson’s daddy he’s nodding his head

miss wilma she talks she answers questions but she’s looking at ron johnson but she is answering ron johnson’s momma’s question yes i know it’s just ron he’s eighteen sally well she’s seventeen yes i know no i don’t know why the judge is so upset well yes ok yes you’re right i guess i do know why the judge is so upset but

it’s georgia law

ron johnson hell he has always wanted to be a lawyer he has always wanted to be clarence darrow he has always been so fucking ready to inherit the wind to lift the sword of righteousness like scout’s daddy

yeah just like scout’s daddy mister atticus finch

an’ i asked her what and she said to jus' step on the chair yonder an' git that box down from on top of the chifforobe

she said she'd never kissed a grown man before an' she might as well kiss me she says for me to kiss her back

the camera it slowly spins mouths move tongues tatter eyes lift lips go to tight smiles the heads nod the shoulders shrug a tear runs down his momma’s cheek ron johnson’s daddy his face turns angry red

an angry red

grabbing his shotgun out of the closet red his momma trying to reason with him aubrey now aubrey the shell pumping into the chamber ron johnson he’s standing in the doorway shorts and tee shirt his face fresh from a good cry curious now earlier

that dog had coming running through the yard just when ron johnson all of four years old had coming bursting out the screen door wearing his brand new pee eff flyers soaring off the porch like the kid in the cartoon landing right in front of where that unlucky fucking dog was running scaring the hell out of both ron johnson and the mangy mutt that didn’t really belong in the neighborhood he belonged to one of the black boys who cut the grass

mangy mutt snapped at ron johnson getting him a piece of ron johnson’s ass cheek right when ron johnson’s daddy was pulling up into the driveway and ron johnson he kept running over toward his daddy the mangy mutt snapping at him running behind and ron johnson his daddy he stepped in front of that dog and yelled and that mangy mutt he high tailed it back the other direction with a yelp and a scream and ron johnson he grabbed his daddy’s leg and ron johnson his daddy picked him up and brought him inside ron johnson moaning and crying and sobbing like only his four year old self knew how and ron johnson his daddy he handed him to his momma and walked back to the bedroom and ron johnson his momma she put him down with a pat on the head and followed her husband and ron johnson he followed his momma

and watched in the doorway as his momma looked up at his daddy her hands lightly touching his arm that held the shotgun she saying please aubrey

and the angry red it drained from ron johnson’s daddy’s face it slowly went back to his ruddy tanned puss with the afternoon shadow and he pumped the shell out of the gun and put them both back into the closet closed the door and his momma she took ron johnson’s hand led him back to the bathroom to look him over

teeth didn’t go through his shorts

and ron johnson his daddy’s face turns an angry red and his eyes they glare down and through at miss wilma he’s not looking at miss wilma he’s looking through miss wilma he’s looking through miss wilma and on into his dark place and his arms are crossed and tight and ron johnson his momma with the tear running down her cheek places her hand on his daddy’s arm

the one closest to her

lightly

and ron johnson his daddy he looks down and ron johnson his momma she looks up she gently she softly tops him from the bottom the blood it drains it slowly drains his face it slowly goes back to that tanned ruddy stoicism he puts the shotgun back in the closet

and the music it’s not there and the owl he’s gone and the voices they fade and the silence numbs him slowly suffocates ron johnson

he can’t breathe but he’s breathing fine he’s underwater and he can’t breathe and he’s breathing fine

and floating about are choices two choices weaving into one ear out the other bits leaving his mouth his mother his father his lawyer and for once his aunt betty she ain’t saying nothing she his aunt betty she’s just looking at him his father ron johnson his daddy he saying ron

son

there is no choice you just gotta go

his lawyer trying to lay it out all facts and figures she saying the judge no it’s not judge hopkins but you have to know that he is not a stranger to judge hopkins the judge he says you can either take three years in reidsville or you can join the army go down to the local induction center and join the army that’s three years too

or we can try to go to trial

and ron johnson the only bits really coming out of his mouth from his stomach deep down in his stomach burning a path up his esophagus his throat acidic verbiage of whoa whoa whoa bubbling up tres gravelly coarse river sand suspended sickly sour right behind the back of his tongue

the roman soldiers they gave him wine to drink mingled with gall and after tasting it he was unwilling to drink

and ron johnson his lawyer miss wilma she put a piece of paper on the bench there was a red ex at the bottom she gave ron johnson a pen and he leaned over

pen in hand

the paper it blurred it wiggled in the air like a gilligan island dream scene and ron johnson his eyes they watered heavy tears forming

but he did not blink

he did not blink and the tears they stayed until the dusty air floated by and took them away

and he took a deep breath and he signed his name his adult name right next to the red ex ronald samuel johnson

Jesup, part the eighteenth, army men

and here is ron johnson his momma his daddy they’re 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

don’t you know by and by the bible beckons to ron johnson

it whispers the pages flutter softly in the breeze that seeps through the cracked window sills begs through and wraps itself around the ceiling fan that spins it round and round and round till it disperses sprinkles down to deep breaths desperate for the slight movement the slight disturbance to the stillness that suffocates

ron johnson he breathes deeply from beneath the white cotton sheet opens himself up to god

he resists at first but the bitch just overcomes overwhelms

and he simply rolls over takes her down from his bookshelf it's up there with all the other books he has he takes it down he likes the feel of the pages the way they flitter fly float paper so thin sometimes he thinks he could

as a last resort

in desperate times

jesus would understand don't you know

as a last resort he might

tear out a page from one of the lesser books maybe revelations or jeremiah roll himself a joint inhale some ink of the holy well kind green bud laced with peace love understanding and grace

and fire
and brimstone
and signs of the devil

a compass of things to come

yeah sometimes he thumbs through the bible this little bible the new king james version he goes straight for the gospels he digs the gospels he digs them most

the gospels sugar that's where it's at

the water to wine the loving of whores the raising of the dead the beatitudes

ah the beatitudes so simple so lovely

ron johnson he scratches his balls scratches his head asks himself where did we leave them behind under what burning bush did we sweep them away how did we go from blessed be the peacemakers to onward christian soldiers

ron johnson he don't understand it

he just wonders where else there is to go what else is there to do except maybe wrap barbed wire about his waist put rocks in his shoes lash himself in the darkness of his room at night oh to know the pain of jesus ron johnson he used to love him so where is she now

come to me jesus let me tell you let me tell you how i feel let me tell you about the stories i love the most

ron johnson he loves that one story that walking on the water thing it makes ron johnson a bit jealous a bit envious in that little kid wanting to have super powers that desire to wiggle his nose and make shit happen he wants that make it hap'n cap'n feeling yeah he wishes he could walk on water slip and slide and saunter and two step across the aquifer hip hop hydroponically have the water tickle his toes like the plushest green lawn on a springtime south georgia morning

blessed are the pure of heart for they shall see god

amen bless us all jesus

amen bless us all south georgia

aw lawdy lawdy way down in south georgia

water water everywhere
not a drop to drink
soil so rich beneath our feet
all we do is sink

blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom

ron johnson today this day walking before the judge he is indeed poor in spirit

ron johnson he sits on the bench outside the courtroom him momma on his left his daddy on his right he leans his head back he closes his eyes

oh sally what you do

oh sally where is your kingdom is this your kingdom

ron johnson his aunt betty his momma’s sister she who half raised him when his momma was working over at the hospital his aunt betty they were waiting for his aunt betty to come join them in the courtroom

for moral support for financial support

blessed are the poor in spirit

and she his aunt betty this is her kingdom he knows it’s her kingdom she rules her kingdom down here in this little part of south georgia where jesup is the county seat stuck right here in the middle of the county a confederate soldier a sentry standing guard in the middle of the town square protecting the citizenry from the angry hordes swarming from the north

and she ain't gonna have no blessings happen unless it come through her and this glorious morning

and there is aunt betty long ago she stands at the bottom of the stairs hands on her hips those broad hips those hips plumply plentiful soft and round motherly and matronly sporting a white apron an off-white apron exhibiting a long ago coffee stain a stain brown and splotchy and looking like a rippling rorschach test imagined by some early times sipping driver to be a dead armadillo splattered battered betwixt and about the yellow lines on the back road to the coast not far from the wayne county line run over seventy two times by thirty six cars all in a line on a tuesday morning funeral procession out to the family cemetery

she aunt betty she stands at the bottom of the stairs hands on her hips looking up at ron johnson he’s at the top of the stairs he’s holding a big old cardboard box he’s got a crossman pump action pellet gun and a bolt action twenty two rifle slung over his shoulder cousin jimmy he's standing behind him he's holding a double barrel twenty gauge shotgun and a satchel full of shells and pellets and packs of matches and a big can of lighter fluid

it's a july morning

of ron johnson’s twelfth summer jimmy he's had four more than ron

she ron’s aunt betty his cousin jimmy’s mom she stands at the bottom of the stairs hands on her hips looking up at them she's blocking their way they have no choice but to listen to what she has to say

she ron’s aunt betty she always got something to say the only time ron ain't seen his aunt betty talking she be sleeping in that big old brass bed holding court in the morning hours or in that big old fluffy chaise with the tee vee section of the newspaper folded in her lap the lip stick stained coffee cup on the table next to the lamp

his aunt betty ron johnson’s aunt betty she stands at the bottom of the stairs her hands on her hips she says taking a deep breath that causes her to shiver just a little bit a shiver and shake from her toes to her upper lip her fatty fabric rolling in that undulating way like the fans do at the football stadium standing up sitting down doing the wave she says taking that deep breath drawn from the depths of her pre-diabetic state

she says

standing at the bottom of the stairs her hands on her hips she says james robert where in the sam hill do you think you're going

ron johnson he’s holding a box a big ol box bigger than his twelve year old arms can manage a roman candle poking its tubular presence out into the world sniffing the air like a puppy crawling out from beneath the bed after peeing on mom's new persian rug its wet little nose sniffing for safety looking for love

hell ain’t everyone

several strings of firecrackers flowing up and out bunches of bottle rockets all rubber banded together like stalks of broccoli at the piggly wiggly the rattle rattle shake shake of plastic army men tanks cannons and assorted replicas of violent childhood dreams hundreds of grey and green soldiers posed in positions varied and vericose

each step carefully taken down toward auntie gestapo

she who imprisons and tortures her children with saccharin permissiveness with blissful ignorance with what she don't know can't harm her position within the community can't take away her seat at the bridge table can't embarrass her with idle gossip poolside at the club who tortures them with the blessed sanctity of deep down not really giving a shit because she can't because she lost the battle years ago because the south georgia seventies swept over her in a tsunami she can't get used to that offers no possibility of solace

and ron johnson he walks timidly down the steps toward aunt betty as timidly as jimmy is cocky the son who long ago learned to shine on mom and dad a cornfed eddie haskel taken to shuck and jive well before it had ever drifted out of the hood and down to a grand greasy haired wiggerdom of country fried meth addicts

slowly ron johnson he turns walking timidly down the steps step by step inch by inch sliding past aunt betty mumbling good morning aunt betty she looking down at him tsk tsk'ing saying you eat breakfast ronnie yes ma'am aunt betty she watching him slide on by looking over her shoulder tsk tsk'ing saying what'd you have cereal and milk she saying she looking at him walk on out toward the kitchen she saying you clean up yes ma'am aunt betty

she has all the mannerisms of the negro mammy who stands in front of the stupid helpless tom the cat stands in front of him her arms crossed the end of a rolling pin gripped by one hand an aunt jemima kerchief about her hair a black high heeled pump tap tapping on the formica floor whacks that stupid cat with the rolling pin right there on afternoon cartoons tom and jerry every afternoon that cat gets the shit beat out of it

ron johnson he’s waiting for her to whack jimmy on the back of the head if not with the missing rolling pin with at least the palm of her hand as he saunters on by too cocky for a swagger saunters on by she still demanding just where in the sam hill do you think you're going jimmy he turns still walking backward clutching the satchel with exasperation and a shrug he says with all the sullenness and meanness that a sixteen year old can muster for his mother

we're going to the quarry we're going to set up all these army men and tanks and things and we're going to blow the hell out of them and shoot the shit out of them and then we might light them on fire

and ron’s aunt betty she says red faced she says i'm sure your father will have something to say about this

and jimmy he's sure he will too but that's many hours from now he cannot let the future rule his present rule his presence

and ron he’s waiting outside when jimmy comes storming out onto the back porch the screen door slam slam slamming behind him its squeaky spring wheezing into silence

between the smacks
between the smacks
between the smacks

they tear out of the drive in jimmy’s sixty six impala ess ess the three ninety six the holly six fifty the hooker headers the thrush dual exhaust

and the chrome

oh baby all that chrome

ron johnson he thinks oh lord let’s testify ron johnson he wants to testify

he wants to roll around on the pulpit the preacher putting his hand to his forehead he wants to feel the spirit flow through him he wants to speak his word he wants to chant his word he wants to echo his word speak in tongue to all his creatures

ron johnson he wants his world walls to be solid he wants them to be firm and supportive lawdy lawdy ron johnson he thinks lord don’t let me down send me a message i just want to testify all i want all i need is some sort of sign

a confederate flag painted on the trunk of the impala a confederate flag dangling from his key chain a confederate flag wrapped around their hearts them white folk they got to cling to something the whole world wobbles and george wallace he done been shot

blessed are they who mourn for they shall be comforted

they drive up to the quarry by way of a long dirt road signs at the turnoff stating declaring that it the dirt road it's county maintained the tires spin slightly as they leave the tar and gravel land on the hard pack dirt they leave a trail of dust in their wake

they are two of the four horsemen there are four hundred more beneath the hood

twenty minutes later they pull up to the massive clay pit rolling slowly over bump and bowl the slow rumble of the three quarter crane cam rolling rolling like an idling ski boat

bada bada
bada bada
bada bada

they lug the boxes out ron johnson jimmy they spend a couple of hours setting up the army men arranging the little plastic figures along battle lines in and amongst the rocks and twigs and holes and mounds of dirt jimmy has the green guys from these here united states of america ron johnson he’s the grey the nasty nazis he is representing all that is reprehensible and wrong

it's a dangerous world out there beyond jesup their town cousin jimmy telling ron it don't matter all hell is going to break loose anyway

and so it is and so it will be

ron johnson he set up his artillery along a canyon wall he places a tank battalion moving in across a dusty plain he positions forward snipers embedded in the woods he employs armored carriers and troops moving in from a shadowy flank jimmy he has the high ground he's dug in sort of a guns of navaronne in reverse

there is the calm before the storm there is a silence before the battle

they start with the pellet gun each taking turns picking off a man here a man there a man there are probably five hundred men maybe more they bore of the painfully slow death the one at a time the tick the tock of the executioner's clock ain't nobody going to win this way they begin tossing firecrackers one at a time getting some satisfaction when one lands amidst a group of soldiers in front of a tank alongside a troop carrier

jimmy tosses an em eighty leaving a crater the size of a texas grapefruit ron he buries one at the bottom of jimmy’s fortress lighting the fuse watching part of his wall crumble

too bad they don't make the plastic filled with red goo they want carnage the more they kill the more they want to kill

they twist up several firecrackers and don't even bother with turns throwing them randomly about when they think about it shooting wildly with pellet gun and twenty two jimmy aims a roman candle and lays waste to ron johnson’s front line ron johnson he throws a barrage of bottle rockets at jimmy’s cliff

lo and the walls a'come a'tumblin' down

the smell of gunpowder stings the eyes a tear flows down ron’s cheek he gasps to catch his breath he pauses

between the smacks
between the smacks
between the smacks

blessed are the merciful for they shall obtain mercy

ron johnson he puts down his pellet gun he tosses aside his box of matches jimmy he looks at his little cousin ron he says hey we're not finished we're not done ron johnson he says hey i'm done ron johnson he kicks back he takes a seat on his haunches looking staring wheezing coughing jimmy he says hey we're not finished jimmy he's older he's wiser he whispers his own words of wisdom to ron in the darkness of his room at night

jimmy he ain't done

jimmy he takes the lighter fluid he sprays it all over the battle field soaks the clay soaks the plastic men soaks the tanks and cannons and accoutrements of warfare strewn about them he runs a liquid trail back to where ron johnson sits he stands in front of ron and ron johnson he didn't notice then but now walking down the courthouse hallway now walking through those big doors in ron johnson’s memories when he looks back in that looking glass

when he stares at his soul between breaths of an acid trip he sees them now the little horns those pointy curvy little horns poking up from beneath his shaggy seventies south georgia hair

jimmy he grins he grimaces he tosses a match between ron’s legs

the quick poof of a flame licks ron’s balls

and shoots back down toward the battlefield engulfs the men ron he thinks he hears them scream he knows that now today in the early mornings that time between darkness and sunrise when dreams weigh heavy so heavy he can't wake up he hears them scream

they melt slowly they melt

the gaseous fumes mixing with the hot july day it's all hazy like when clint eastwood wanders out of the desert to begin yet another spaghetti western the good the bad the ugly

they watch for a little while five seconds thirty seconds a couple of minutes some ground cover it catches fire smokes smolders hisses pops ron johnson gets up walks over to the twenty gauge leaning against the car

pump it once aims and pulls the trigger

a holy cacophony reverberates through the canyon through the quarry the number seven bird shot devastating the hillside bits and parts of plastic and mud and clay and dead flora explode and rain down upon them

he pumps it again aims and pulls the trigger

this time the explosion not as loud perhaps they’re half deaf from the first another wave of humanity disintegrates before their eyes another slice of the earth pulverized

blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they shall be satisfied

ron johnson he hungers he thirsts he yearns for righteousness he opens his eyes he looks over at his momma he looks up at his daddy he whispers believe me lord trust me jesus just show me a sign and i will testify

where else they gonna go what else they gonna do except maybe wrap barbed wire about their waist put rocks in their shoes lash themselves in the darkness of their room at night oh to know the pain of jesus ron johnson he do love him so where is she now

ron johnson he opens his eyes he looks over at his momma he looks up at his daddy he whispers come to me jesus let me tell you let me tell you how i feel let me tell you about the stories i love the most

that one story that one part he loves that walking on the water thing it makes him a bit jealous a bit envious in that little kid wanting to have super powers that desire to wiggle his nose and make shit happen he wants that make it hap'n cap'n feeling yeah he wishes he could walk on water slip and slide and saunter and two step across the aquifer hip hop hydroponically have the water tickle his toes like the plushest green lawn on a springtime south georgia morning

blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness for theirs is the kingdom of heaven

their job their duty done they pick up the empty shells they leave the dead on the field of battle they pack their guns and they head on home

bada bada
bada bada
bada bada

a dusty trail in their wake

ron johnson he looks back he whispers oh lord oh lawdy help me to walk on water jesus help us all

jesup, part the seventeenth, screen doors

and ron johnson he stands at the doorway the paint peeling from the doorjamb in little spidery lines intricately mapped here there everywhere across down the wood a bas relief of lake sinclair and what some might call the foothills thereabouts a geographical representation of all the possibilities of all the roads trails paths routes out of jesup out of this place but

to where to where to where

maybe merely simply a medical textbook sketching of the various blue veins plotted charted engraved on the calves of his great aunt louise on saturday morning that one morning that she doesn't have on her thick nylons that one morning of the week she pads around the kitchen in her slippers and bathrobe serving up grits and eggs and bacon and biscuits to great uncle chic sitting there at the kitchen table adjusting his teeth the expectant drool limiting the bond a little slipping a little sliding

hell it's just grits

and ron johnson he scratches a bit on the screen door peering through hands cupped over eyes his nose scored just a bit by the wire mesh perhaps a couple of them just a little bit frayed jabbing stabbing his nostrils a little touche from her daddy the sun rising up into the late morning sky shining behind him creating patches of grey and black in front of him

and there she is on the other side of the screen that oh so thin veneer that separates them that keeps them apart that allows that oh so close that oh sweet jesus that sweet sweet summer morning smell to arise from those hippie chick fuzzy wuzzy armpits exposed beneath the white wife beater that more likely than not is branded with ron's name rank and serial number in black permanent ink where the tag should be where mister hanes normally leaves his mark her hands clasped above her head those little cupfuls of joy and pleasure and nourishment pushing up through the cotton tiny twin mounts of vesuvius declaring their intent their purpose their mission to burst into life she oh me oh my miz sally she stretched out in her full sepia glory in the family room lazy boy at full tilt recline literally wriggling in what ron hopes prays is anticipation the television dancing silently mary ann and ginger dancing on a bamboo and palm frond stage gilligan and the skipper wide eyed and jaw dropped hands in their pockets hips hula hooping they got spurs that jingle that jangle

they all got wood that twirls around like a compass lost on the north pole

ron he scratches on the screen he whispers hey sally hey girl come on now let me in ron he raps taps rat-a-tats lightly on the wood it gives it bounces slaps against the door frame miz sally her eyes sashay over to ron's silhouette pressed against the screen slowly she smiles that wide wild welcoming hello that turns ron's knees to jello that sends a shaky leg shiver from hip to ankle and back up his spine

weebles wobble but they don't fall down

and sally she motions sends smoke signals says hey sailor slide on in slide on over come on over here lemme have a look lemme have a long one come on come on in and ron he opens the door is welcomed by the long moan and groan of the screen door springs

natural paranoia twists his gaze over his shoulder toward whence he came

an empty whiskey bottle maybe old crow maybe old granddad sits atop the partial fence that attaches to the garage set there like some blindfolded prisoner awaiting execution set there awaiting its bullet that one bullet that will separate it from itself

and desire that bubbling bubbling boiling trouble that stirs that shakes that transmits tremors of elastic electricity little yo-yo’s of ecstatic energy up and down up and down up and down his spine down and out his big toe burning a hole in the door jam as he crosses it

the bottle it just sits there like a knot on a dog’s dick left behind on the fence post

and he ron johnson he walks across the room his eyes catch hers she smiles he smiles she lays back opens her arms wide her buttercups pressing up against the white cotton slight stains of sweat spot dainty wet crescents beneath a seaming water source rather than result

or consequence

she wiggles and giggles on the reclined recliner he ron johnson he stops in front of her looking down upon her his young cock a dowsing rod searching searching desperately searching reaching out for her for her love for her loins his young cock trying to break the bonds trapped against his leg by tidie whities and levis discomfort drives him to reach down squat just the slightest suck in his gut to give himself room while his hand slides down to grab wrap around adjust himself to a more bearable position

his eyes never having left hers hers never having left his ron johnson he wonders if this is love he knows that this is love he doubts that this is love he is convinced that this is love he doesn’t give a shit about love he would give everything if this were love he wants to fuck love in the ass and then toss it over his shoulder on his way out he wants to build love in a bottle and display it on his mantle he wants to

sing a love song on the town square love being such a fucking traveling minstrel show comes into town on a friday afternoon with a parade down main street parties well into the wee hours stays a while gives everyone a thrill and some laughs

then sneaks out of town before monday’s dawn

ron johnson he stands tall and lifts his tee shirt up and over his head marshal tucker wrinkles and folds into a crumpled pile on the bare but polished pine floor can’t you see oh can’t you see what that woman been doing to me he leans over placing one hand on each of the arms of the chair the fold of his skinny gut squeezes two rivulets of sweat out of his navel and they slide down the twin trails of pale red fuzz that lead down below the belt loops of his jeans

her arms sally’s arms they suddenly wrap around him bringing him down to her

her lips

his lips to her lips

and she lifts herself up to him he remains tensed over the recliner his arms trembling her legs wrap around him she is a little writhing snake a creature from the lagoon fighting to hold on to get into his skin under his skin

she is a fucking love leach insatiable gluttonous a ravenous varmint that bites and won’t let go till she gets what she wants gets what she needs what she requires to keep going to keep on she grinds herself against his hip his legs his stomach his chest her love cups pressed up against him soft and young and willing and wanting

she slides around his tensed body like the red on a barber pole

they kiss so hard their teeth click and clack she pulls on his scruffy hair on his ears clasps his throat hangs on by incisors sunk deep she he they so hungry so ravenous desire slices off their ear sends it back home in a box with a ransom note

small unmarked bills only

if you ever want to see them alive again

ain’t nobody know what they know ain’t nobody gonna know what they know

and they collapse into their lover’s prison into their fuck cage trapped by their youth enslaved by his cock chained to her cunt they collapse onto the chair with a bounce and a shout of surprise and a titter and a snicker and a laugh

and then for a moment for a minute for a few more they are not a them they are an it a singular organism shedding clothes and skin and sweat

and they fuck

young fucking

animals rutting

flopping in their own sweat

the recliner bouncing bounding across the wooden floor inches at a time

deep scratches left in the soft pine

and they don’t hear the crunching of tires on gravel outside and they don’t hear the the cadillac pull up front and they don’t hear the dying whine of the air conditioner as the engine shuts down and they don’t hear the open and close of the door

metal on metal

that sweet sound so often associated with the end of the evening with mom getting up and going to the kitchen like pavlov’s dog getting down the glass and bottle from the cabinet the clink clink of ice dropping into the glass with mom pouring from the bottle of old granddad old crow two glugs of the bourbon over ice a lift a slight shake to cover and warm the two cubes

and they don’t hear the scraping of feet on the mat the tapping of the toe on the step to loosen and shake free the dirt caught in the loose cracks between sole and shoe

but they do hear the sound of the front door opening the casual greeting followed by the usual curse of the day this time a hey i’m home goddamn john amberlin got an emergency call some knocked up trailer trash having her baby early john had to take off after the fourth hole just as well i was putting like shit anyway hot as goddamned hades out there anyway hey sally where are you come make your daddy some iced tea

and ron johnson is up and off sally up and off that recliner and sally hopkins is up and out from under ron johnson up and off that chair and they scramble for their clothes and ron johnson he slides back into marshal tucker and slips on his jeans and boots as he hustles out the back screen door sally hopkins chasing after him stopping at the door to catch the screen keep it from slamming with one hand as she slides into her shorts in the other

and she looks back and there on the floor are ron johnson’s underwear and she knows they are his because ron johnson his momma had written his name in big bold black letters over the tag in the back and sally her eyes are locked on ron johnson’s name and when they let loose of those drawers she looks up and sees her daddy judge hopkins sees his eyes themselves are locked on ron johnson’s name

and judge hopkins he doesn’t say a thing and after a minute a full sixty second count he just walks back into the kitchen picks the receiver up off the wall phone and punches in a few numbers and stands there

later sally hopkins when she would see ron johnson next maybe two maybe three days on sally hopkins she would tell ron johnson that the only thing her daddy said into that phone were

hey charlie this is judge hopkins

yeah

yeah say charlie do me a favor send a car on around here will you

yeah that’s right

my place

yeah that’s right

thanks charlie you tell that sweet wife of yours i said hello all right now good bye

and he judge hopkins he walks back into the sun room he leans over he picks up ron johnson’s drawers he balls them up puts them in his front golf pants pocket and he walks out the back door to watch ron johnson unload the truck

and wait for the patrol car to come on around

Jesup, part the sixteenth, monday monday

and it’s monday it’s a monday in june and 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 bobby of the shirtless double bird bobby of the double yellow line crossing bobby whose daddy owns the place bobby who will one day maybe if he lives if he stays out of jail if he if he if he

yeah maybe

it’s a fucking roll of the dice a game of chance a draw of the short straw a flip of the coin an unknown algorithm decided configured perfected by that nameless godhead that master architect of intelligent design who weaves our collective and individual fates into the fabric of time

god is a baptist but jesus was an accident an unintended consequence suffering six sigmas don’t you know perfection rests on the most fragile of variables

desideratum demands diligence

but death is easy it’s the blink of an eye the snap of the fingers the slight distraction from detail a drunken detour right when the lane leans left a culvert pipe its mouth open like jonah’s whale

and ron he’s at work on this monday this post-hallucinatory float atop a sea of worry and hope and ron 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 relaxes rather ron he simply reflects watching the morning clock tick tock if he smoked he'd be smoking if he did heroin if he even knew where to buy heroin if he knew one could really buy heroin here in jesup he'd probably be running it up floating back down like scooby-do do on saturday mornings after his scooby snack 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 time is money he ron he relaxes finds his zone finds that daytime should be nighttime 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 slinky 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 tax 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 slides into a slight 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 it was plaster of paris 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 standing on its side like a bass drum 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 says gentleman farmer 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 fifteenth, the return ride

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 allison 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 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 allison 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 couple hundred yards down the road u-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 another 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 and exhales out the window

Jesup, Part the Eleventh

and ron johnson yeah he'll end up hanging with his friends doing the shit that he and his friends do but toward the end of the night when things wind down his mind well his mind will begin to focus on the true reason for coming home his mind his body his cock they all converge on that one true reason for making the drive down highway and byway and back road and on into town

for ron johnson he believes in the one truth that bodily truth

yes he do believe he do believe yes he do

ron johnson he believes he was taught to believe in god the father almighty the creator of heaven and earth and in jesus christ his only son our lord

ron johnson he do believe in the father the son the holy ghost he believes in purple haze blotter acid peyote mushrooms and lsd created by the hand of man himself he believes in moses mohammad buddha vishnu he believes in the blessings of her sacred goodness the kind green bud he believes in the power of love he believes in family he believes in the ultimate goodness in mankind he believes that

evil exists

in everyone

ron johnson he believes in the holy act of fucking he believes in grabbing a handful of hair of the willing and bringing her down onto his phallic being for sacred consumption he believes in the holy act of wiping his ass he believes in jacking off with wondrous abandon he believes in picking belly button lint out of his fucking belly button while he contemplates world peace while he contemplates when he might next jack off yet again

and again

ron johnson he believes in coughing up a big loogie spitting it into the gutter and continuing on his way ron johnson he believes that

love lasts

until a person just don't want it to last anymore and even then it

lingers

ron johnson he believes that he doesn't do enough to end the misery that permeates the world he believes that he eats more than his fair share he believes that he shouldn't wear leather maybe he shouldn't eat meat he believes that he could have given the fucker on the corner a dollar without blinking an eye he believes yes he believes as edmund burke said that all that is necessary for evil to succeed is for good men to do

nothing

and ron johnson he fucking believes in nothing he believes in everything he believes nay he knows that he is confused about what to believe

his momma she taught him one thing his daddy he taught ron johnson another thing his cousins and friends they taught him some things that haunt him to this day the church of his youth hell they taught him shit that he just could not fathom let alone believe

ron johnson his teachers they taught him to believe in the flag and all that she represents he pledges allegiance to this fucking piece of cloth sewn by some old white woman for which it stands one fucking nation of crazy fucking people who could give a flying fuck about anyone else liberty and justice for everyone except those that don't fucking deserve it hey woman whip me up some broad cloth make it kind of colorful whip me up something that i can wave around something that the boys will lay down and die for

ron johnson his teachers taught him

to believe in the innate goodness of these united states of america they taught him to believe that once old king george was not a jolly old soul not a jolly old soul was he and all of the fucking limey redcoat motherfuckers were evil incarnate but later through the triumph of redemption and the miracle of forgetting the past these chaps they ain't so bad now hey they are white and speak english well most of them do

ron johnson yeah he believes the wiccan rede bide the witch's law ye must in perfect love in perfect trust fulfill and ye harm none do what ye will what ye send forth comes back to thee so ever mind the rule of three yeah yeah when oh when will the werewolves of london be smote with the

silver bullet

or three when oh when will the devils be brought before god to testify when will they be dragged through the streets behind the chariot of apollo

ron johnson he closes his eyes and counts to three

one

two

three

and ron johnson he wonders when will she the goddess of love lust and loathing bring him up on charges of not giving a shit when will she drive the nails through his palms his ankles his hips when will that goddamn bitch go ahead and get it over with when will this cunt of a goddess stop squatting over them all pissing her beliefs pissing all over ron's beliefs

ron johnson he knows oh he knows it's all in god's plan who was conceived of the holy spirit born of the virgin mary suffered under pontius pilate was crucified died and was buried and

then the sun went away and the dogwood tree became what they know it to be today and lightening struck and it struck and it struck and it struck goddamn it still strikes today the lightening struck when the europeans fucked up the new world when the europeans fucked up africa when turks slaughtered the armenians when the germans and the brits and the french kicked the shit out of each other when the japanese slaughtered the chinese when the germans slaughtered the jews the gays the gypsies when the americans dropped fire on the germans when they dropped hell itself on the japanese when the jews ran the arabs out of jerusalem when the chinese fucked up the koreans when the chinese fucked up the tibetans when the americans helped the vietnamese laotions cambodians fuck themselves up when the world stood by and watched them fuck themselves up when the arabs fucked their women up when they continue to fuck themselves up oh yes it do

lightening strikes and fire leaps

all around them while they all play their respective fiddles play that funky fiddle white boy yellow boy brown boy black boy

all in god's plan he who descended into hell the third day he arose again from the dead he ascended into heaven he sits at the right hand of god the father almighty

whence he shall come to judge the living and the dead

yeah ron johnson he believes he believes that he will be judged yes he will be judged but not by these motherfuckers in jesup he will not find twelve men who will be his peers he will not find twelve angry jurors that will hesitate to place his sorry neck into the noose he will not

believe in the holy spirit the holy catholic church the communion of saints the forgiveness of sins the resurrection of the body and life everlasting he will not no he will not believe in anything except the bloodied bodies that he sees on the television screen he will believe in anything that walter cronkite says is righteous he will believe in marsha and the brady bunch he will believe that raquel welch has righteous drunken tits that deserve not his lips but his teeth he will believe that the only desperate housewife is the one who has not tasted his cock he will believe anything that euell gibbons tells him about the holy down home sanctity of homespun americana

ron johnson yeah he believes he do he do believe oh lawdy yeah he do believe

Jesup, Part the Ninth

goddamn he misses sally she a year younger she in her senior year of high school while he enters the world leaving her behind

goddamn he misses sally thoughts of that last night on the court house lawn brings about a stirring in his heart in his jeans that last night before heading off to atlanta that first time 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 mosquitos had long since retired back to the swamp to fuck breed procreate repopulate on the murky waters late enough that the occasional heat lightening lights up the outside of the courthouse with some random 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 walk 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 presses up against sally kissing her with a going away passion 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 leaving scratches to explain tomorrow but that's tomorrow tonight she scrapes her back as she slips 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 proclaims her beauty as she pulls back the drapes opens the gate her flat stomach a swirling portico of welcome he expressing his admiration of each nipple as his tongue darts back and forth

slowing down as his lips approach her soft tanned throat taking a moment touching her vulnerability her last little bit of innocence his fingers softly about her throat 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 Eighth

slipping away from the clearing looking into his rearview mirror the orange glow of the tire afire fading into the night

he driving into town to meet up with sally miz sally hopkins

where she slides right up next to him hops up into his truck slips across the bench seat her tanned thigh touching his don't you know she causes him to have that same nervous shiver oh how he fumbles how he knows he'd still be fumbling if he could

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

sweet sally oh such sweetness indeed 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

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 can 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 charmin 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 will never understand who will 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 comes across the radio a little matter of fact announcement a little interruption on ninety six rock dubya kay ell ess atlanta it has sliced him like a paper cut deep and sudden and painless until he sees 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 sees the blood that unexplained loss

he remembers assorted words

skynrd

private plane

mississippi

crash

fire

van zandt dead

rossington collins barely alive

greenville south carolina

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

they don't speak they can't speak hoss he takes budweisers out of the mini fridge pops the tops ron he loads the gatlin bong they stack all five skynrd albums on the turntable even the brand new street survivors hoss just picking it up the day before they'll be talking about the prophecy for weeks that endless leisure time called youth the frivolity of philosophy the time and will to grieve they play them all the way through flip them over play them through again over and over

lather rinse repeat

until a day later after sitting their southern shiva unshaven stoned and drunk they roll away the boulder before their tomb enter 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 can not gather the depth of their loss ron and hoss make 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 listen to those faggots billy joel and paul simon repackaged lounge lizards whose mommas also probably most likely wiped their asses as well

how can they understand when ron and hoss can barely grok the shifting of the winds how can any of them know that the old freak who parks 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 can he know such truths

such prescience frightens and humbles ron johnson

they these guys n his dorm they don't even know don'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 can't understand what ron and hoss know that israel invading lebanon matters 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 Sixth

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

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

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

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

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

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

surviving

like two lovers living two lives

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

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

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

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

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

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

pablo cruise and the eagles suck souls dry

anyway simple man don’t need ‘em around anyhow

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

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

along the bottom piss and primordial shit melt into the future

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

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

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

but not steve the wild trombone man

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

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

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

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

i’m in

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

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

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

whatever happened to piss and vinegar

whatever happened to love and chastity

long hair is all about getting laid

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

where we headed

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

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

the seminoles hell they just got a raw deal

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

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

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

another dead tourist

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

hey cave diving is dangerous they want the boys to know

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

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

the afternoon fades

the road trip fades with it

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

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

goddamn i’m drunk

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

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

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

hey man you drive ron johnson he says

yeah

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

momentarily confused

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

yeah ron you drive

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

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

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

a lone hawk glides over a fallow field

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

goddamn

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

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

big red he spews vomit

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

chunky monkeys

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

goddamn i feel better

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

goddamn i feel better

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

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

yeah i feel good too

down by the river summer afternoon

Jesup, Part the Fifth (an expansion)

and ron he stands next to on the steps below his momma she lightly touches his shoulder ron he nods he slides his hands into his pockets squeezes himself between stiffened arms and extended double jointed elbows and shivers

a nervous shiver and a shake

goosebumps and a brittle grin

she steps down 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 diner 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 harvester truck weighed down with ricks of freshly cut pine logs piled on high syrupy raw turpentine drippings and sap oozing from the severed and frayed edges an engine fires sputters belches roars the truck jumps and bucks 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 on the end of the street and they make the turn with the logs swaying squeaking squawking with the ricks

ron johnson and his mom they watch them head of out town and before the truck can disappear around the corner before the belching of the indigested engine fades into the day they see the fuzzy grizzled face of the driver leaning over the steering wheel one hand holding his cup and wheel the other hand ron he guesses he assumes to be gripping the stick shift his head bouncing on the straw like some cheap valium pumped peachtree street whore going down on a pencil dicked geek from georgia tech

ron and his momma they watch them head out of town 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 carolina blue espadrilles her soft pink toenails exposed

gazing pretty much at anything except each other

gazing within the wait waiting within the gaze trying to see through from here to there looking backwards

Jesup, Part the Fourth (a re-write)

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

he and his friend hoss big old hoss

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he said

we hopped a train

eyes wide eyebrows raised lighter poised above the bowl

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

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

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

goldkist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

for hours and hours forever it seemed

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

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

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

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

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

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

which way is home

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

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

the answer is right there

in front of me

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

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

he stopped he pointed

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

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

that was yesterday we just got back

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

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

ron he said where the fuck did you hear that

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

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

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

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

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

don't you fucking know

ron he paused and then he went on into his room