Jesup, part the fifth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesup, part the fourth

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

he had met up with sally

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what a boy has to do to become a man

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

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

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

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

last autumn

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

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

he remembers assorted words

skynrd

private plane

mississippi

crash

fire

van zandt dead

rossington collins barely alive

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

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

lather rinse repeat

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

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

american by birth southern by the grace of god

goddamn

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

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

such prescience frightened and humbled ron johnson

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

Jesup, part the third

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

a nervous shiver with goosebumps and a brittle grin

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

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

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

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

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

waiting just waiting

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

hanging around lying about the good old days

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

yeah

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

yeah

remember when

yeah

Jesup, part the second

ron's momma waits for him at the top of the steps on the wide white marble veranda ron lifting one foot after another the bleached snowy stone reflecting heavy and dull on this morning echoing a flat note

this somber morning

this morning that has taken forever to get going this morning set in the middle of this fucking swamp of time that they have circled circumnavigated circumscribed circle jerked about all summer

ron would just as soon shoot his wad get on with it

ron all of eighteen not far from nineteen having finished up his freshman courses at emory university that fine establishment of higher learning nestled away in a halcyon-laced fuzzy forest green shire in the middle of modern atlanta finished up a couple months back a lifetime ago well after planting season around about in june not an exceptional year his professors not proclaiming his academic prowess not declaring him a bastion of pedagogic future

he has not yet found his place in the sun has not unleashed his passion for learning within those hallowed halls

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

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

he and his friend hoss

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he saying

we hopped a train

eyes wide eyebrows raised lighter poised above the bowl

don't you know we were walking back from dinner just having scarfed down a couple of dagwoods feeling good feeling nice and full and happy lighting up a jay when some sort of premonition came over us like we had been thinking about it the whole time don't you know like we were cassidy and kerouac with an ethereal plan with a command from elijah here comes this freight train slowing down as it rounded the bend coming into campus down near the old depot this rust colored box car cries out to us with its big yellow letters declaring

goldkist

might as well have been the yellow neon out front of the plaza theater tempered by a bottle of codeine or a handful of disco biscuits either obtained with a doctored up fake scrip next door at plaza drug

its big sliding door already open like an invitation to my cousin's sweet sixteen spread her legs party we thought we'd just jump on go a couple of miles down the track then hop off catch the next one coming this way get back to campus all in a couple of hours next thing we know we're rushing through the countryside cold air streaming through the slats the smell of ratshit catshit hoboshit gagging and choking us as we traveled through the night the train not stopping until we're well into alabama

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

got so cold in that fucking train me and hoss we hugged each other grabbed hold to each other like two midtown fags if i had had a knife i would have slit him open and crawled inside i would have got all call of the wild with his big ol' loving self

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

for hours and hours forever it seemed

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

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

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

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

which way is home

he stopped he looked around he looked at us he looked at the direction from where we walked he rubbed his chin in that well let me just take out my trig book i'm sure

the answer is right there

in front of me

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

he stopped he pointed

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

that was yesterday we just got back

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

whoa welcome home

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

Jesup, part the first

the humidity sits heavily upon the wiregrass and pines around the spanish bayonets that nobly slash and tear through the low hanging puffiness that threatens to smother that threatens to empty their vigor upon the day pushing the humidity through within amidst the spanish moss floating from the cedar the cypress graying vessels of ghosts of ancestors and friends of souls unrequited a humidity that hovers above pressing down upon the two-lane blacktop that bisects the whole lot of them the wiregrass the pines the cedar the cypress a ribbon of sizzling asphalt running right down through this isolated impoverished land of hookworm pellagra athlete's foot

the dull silver light refracts through this humid prism swims a ballet a wondrous june taylor dancer spectacular does a jello wiggle go go girl shimmy in the cage that is south georgia as the truck rumbles grumbles

wiregrass and pines everywhere looking out the window splotches of wiregrass leading right up to the line of pine soldiers a thousand deep marching down through georgia on their way to the coast way down in that part of the state that no man's land between macon and the coast down along the alapaha river making its way

meandering on around

way down through the wiregrass wasteland to jesup just a little clearing in the woods don't know how they got there don't know why they stayed it's just a bend in the river down around about the middle of but not quite near nowhere

some called it home some called it theirs

some called only to get a busy signal

some called it way down there way over yonder just as general sherman marched from atlanta to milledgeville to savannah across the river and on into the carolinas

yeah back in the day back in those times back before they gave a shit them a conquered people

humbled and stubborn and angry and bitter and run back driven back into the bushes with their tails between their legs reminded of their humiliation over and over and over again

every day

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

shit it happens but when it does

they sanctify the lord god in their hearts ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh a reason of the hope that is with meekness and fear

lord god who abandons them in their time of need lord god who abandons them wanders his old trails his familiar paths touching the anointed ones disregarding those who abandoned him first

he's a jealous god he's a mischievous god

but he's their god he's all they got

and the chevy shortbed pickup pulls to a stop alongside the curb its motor turning over hesitantly like it ain't yet done like it don't want to stop it's got a couple more firings left in the plugs

an old smoker climbing the last step of the staircase the truck it wheezes it coughs it burps it gives

a shudder a shake

a sunday morning hangover sitting on the toilet a sweaty chill going up the old man's spine the bowels flutter wind and drop tight whiskey bound shit plop plop

a loosening a release

an ah fuck

a couple of dirt clods dried earthen meatloaves having attached themselves to the undercarriage after the last heavy rain after the last slow splashing trudge across the muck of the bog near the family farm having attached themselves to the undercarriage like muddy land-barnacles they these melangesque scum chunks they let go their desperate clinging they're casually dislodged from below the rear fender they fall tumble through the monoxide thickness land explode into a series of tiny mushroom puffs

a nothingness that floats heavenward

a body moves behind a windshield painted with the corpses of a thousand coupling love bugs a weary molasses shadow just beyond the thin outline of wiper tracks where the brittle rubber blades once danced in vain not that it matters not that the world this day presents any vivid disneyana upon which to gaze

the door wheezes open one then two brogans step heavily onto the runner onto the road back of the sleeve wipes the brow as the feed and seed cap is lifted eyes squint into the harsh nauseousness of the day

not a cloud to be seen not even a wisp not even a haze don't matter none ain't no nevermind the late morning august sky in jesup still about as tired and grey and lifeless as the old gelding's limp dick ain't much good come out of it exceptin' a weak piss an afternoon sprinklin' that don't do no good precipitation that hardly hits ground before returning home the ground this time of the year this part of the coastal summer this south georgia hell hole just up the road from brunswick just down the road from savannah a land so scorched and dry the grass it snaps crackles pops as ron johnson he takes the slow walk across the courthouse lawn to the big white marble steps that lead up to the big wooden doors that opened to this seat of county governance that lead up to this morning's hearing that

lead up to his tomorrow

the pines and shrubbery a dull drooping green the azaleas browning at the edges their flowers crumpled dead beneath and ignored by the gang of stink bugs batting about the collection of rolypolies balled up in the dust

the magnolia though thick with leaves appears not to cast even the whisper of a shadow

a couple of tweets maybe they're finches perhaps they're wrens they peck about so slowly the insects barely have to move to avoid being made a meal a gnarly feral cat gazes lazily from its nap its hunger pangs submissive to the heat and humidity hoping its avian dinner will wait til later

a miserable fuck of a place jesup in august

the only life seemingly worth living the only life with a purpose this morning this unending moment in time this world so heavy that the hands of the clock crawl through the sorghum air barely budging barely punching their way to the next second the next minute the only life with any will to continue these vicious little fire ants little fiendish fuckers frantically scurrying about the several templish mounds arising up from the middle of the yard like some post-apocalyptic sodom and gomorrah

they the fire ants go about their business moving grains of sand from here to there waiting for maybe daring some flip flop wearing fool to stumble across provoke them into a swarming red menace

god's curse wrought by herman talmadge jay bee stoner and the brotherhood

my sweet lord

this heat

such a long slow death

a poor soul might as well just go ahead take out the black jack throw away the cork take a shot take another guzzle the rest put the pedal to the metal toss the bottle to the wind drive on into the drainage ditch run the front of the truck into the culvert drive the steering post through your chest smash the life out of your broken heart goddamn better to go out in a flash

than to whither away like these magnolia blossoms

better to follow all these others over the last few years drunken high school volunteers soldiers of death don't you know all you gotta do release the wheel spread your arms wide sing a song for jesus

a bottle a blindfold light up a fag pull back the hammer with a click squeeze the trigger

shitty shitty bang bang

hum the henry miller mantra lo the freedom to kill ourselves is that one true advantage we humble humans have over god

A bit like that...

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

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

yes come on
yes it's ok

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

yes it's ok
yes come on
take me

quickly

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

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

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

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

if only oh if only

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

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

my heart

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

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

but still i hear her smile

i do

i hear her smile

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

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

the girl the woman the holy ghost

blessed be her name her kingdom come her will be done

that girl she is my heaven

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

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

kiss me
sweet talk
be mine

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

unafraid

and i sing

yes
i sing

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

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

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

just a bit
only so slightly

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

a smittering a smattering
a pittering a pattering
a destination reached

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

a last kiss on the cheek

an opening of the door

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

if only oh if only

we had the time and all that

Sunday Morning

sunday morning the heavy male voice on the radio the guy that reads the five minutes of news that comes at the top of the hour that little note of somber reality quickly read to us that quick shot of bitter espresso that little jolt to wake us up before the she brings us the flute of too sweet champagne and orange juice before the full brunch of crepes filled with sweet berries and whipped cream before the lively lady regales us with homey montages of the latest norah epheron julia child movie the obama beer sipping controversy the best beach books of the summer moving on to giggling bantering around the sunday puzzle some upbeat middle aged man his faithful wife and beautiful dog sitting at his feet both laughing along with him with the radio lady and her little self-depracating jokes about her own intelligence her lack thereof her own inability to come up with the five letter words that begin with an eff end with an ish or an esh and might fit into a shakespearean sonnet should he mister shakespeare himself arise from the dead shake off the dust the dirt the loam of neglect of several centuries begin anew scribbling limericks about nantucket on discarded wienerschnitzel napkins found on the streets of indianapolis of saint louis of des moines of toledo our puzzle solving hero signing off victoriously hands clasped overhead rocky atop the steps of the philadelphia museum dancing away with the goods a morning edition coffee mug and a tee shirt to wear around the starbucks just outside his suburban gated enclave

this morning sunday morning the heavy male voice he says in a rather matter of fact sort of way he says with his scintillating journalistic excellence his keen eye to neutered objectivity he says

four american soldiers died today when a roadside bomb exploded near their vehicle and

without skipping a beat

he goes on to talk of prolonged aid for unemployment running out the throngs of people mourning the loss of miz aquino in manila and a renewed effort to buy clunkers from fools who bought ess you vees people of means yes but by no means kings of the road or so you would think or so you would hope

goddamn

ah sunday mornings

sometimes they just be reg'lar sometimes they just like any other day sun comes up over the water just like yesterday just like it might tomorrow comes up over the water washes us cleanses us whispers into narrates our vivid just before waking dreams tells us jesus loves us yes he does because the bible tells us so because the residuals of the last joey of the evening toked on the couch while watching the two ay em western black and white with audy murphy that joey still flies around your head in an old old red tri-plane a dog on doghouse chasing it the dog shaking its paw the scent of the joey printed on the banner sailing behind flapping in the breezes flowing between hammer anvil and stirrup and their respective unobstructed stoner holes

jesus loves you on one side jesus is the reason for the season on the other

but sometimes a sunday morning comes around and changes a man's life sometimes on a sunday morning mister preacherman he might stand up in front of the congregation he might talk about jesus christ he might talk about jesus at just the right moment in a man's life he might invoke the holy spirit at that moment when a man is down crippled with the aftereffects of a saturday night a man who awoke in the front seat of his car slumped over the steering wheel the white dry saliva crusted not only on his lips but on his thick useless tongue as well an ashtray full of butts an empty pint of bourbon peeking out of a paper bag in his lap an empty bottle of aftershave on the seat next to him sometimes a preacherman might find that man might reach that man

might change his life

all it takes is a moment all it takes is a snap crackle pop of time

sitting down sunday morning just hanging down at java beach digging the sun the air the leftover saturday buzz the glow of the lingering fuck the fog of the night before sin no less than boomhauer himself yes with crisp white tee shirt you ess flag drawn on its sleeve you ess em sea on his baseball cap coffee spills the table mumbles his discontent

give me a gun i'll kill 'em all

out the window down the street gulls flying round like drunken skeet

big you ess flag flapping in the wind over the church
how many friends do we leave in the lurch
you ess flag flapping in the breeze
a few more bullets get 'em on their knees

flap jack lip smack kiss their ass good bye
flip flop tick tock more people die

way way on down way down in afgahni-town

and hippies on the beach doing the yoga thing in the pacific sun all decked out in their hippie yogi tights wic-a-way shirts complete with politically appropriate and witty slogan printed across some artistic interpretation of an obama yes we can bumper sticker phattie smiles circle their addled peace-loving brains dirty fucking faggots i bet they were quakers or hare krishnas in a previous life i bet they've never even shot a gun i bet they've never twisted the neck off a chicken in order to make the sunday dinner i bet they don't know how many mexicans got to die to bring their organic tomato salsa corn chips to the farmer's market

don't you know if i had a four foot long hippie dick don't you know the miracles that would spring forth

hell if my dick were four feet long i'd wear tight yogi pants too if my dick were four feet long i wouldn't have to wear kevlar cammo and a helmet wouldn't have to run around them mountains shooting at goats and bearded fucks with rags wrapped round their heads if my dick were four feet long i wouldn't have to prove to the world how fucking studly i am

i wouldn't have to sublimate with a grenade launcher

like obama do

obama who don't even know why we're in afghani-town says he needs time to figure it out got to determine the proper metrics it ain't just about how many we kill there are other things to consider we got to come up with a standardized normalized methodology for capturing statistics boiling them down stirring them up sliding them into an effective power point presentation with graphs and animations and slogans talk about how many wells we've drilled how many schools we've built how many people vote in the next election we'll create nine solid metrics that we'll track that we'll report to the media that we'll beam out to the heavens bounce them back down to show the world prove to everyone that

we're doing the right thing

that we're winning

and winning is all that fucking counts hell if my dick were four feet long i'd just hang round the house get lucky and slide

like obama do

obama who don't even know why we're in afghani-town says he needs time to figure it out jesus mary and joseph fucking hell it's just like watching hoops on tv the drones sink another basket nutha mulla down we all just wanna know where to place our bets we all just want to know who is setting odds

meanwhile we just send more troops we kill more we send more troops we die more

hell yeah

gonna get me a drone
gonna make me a surgical strike
gonna find his momma's home
gonna fuck up his lovely wife

sometimes a sunday morning comes around and changes a man's life all it takes is a moment all it takes is a snap crackle pop of time

sunday morning four american soldiers died today and all that