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
Monday, February 21, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Jesup, Part the Third (a rewrite, a re-positioning)
and he ron johnson no he has not yet found his path he ron johnson who climbs the marble steps ascends to mom takes her hands in his kisses her on the cheek stands one step below and to her right watching the sidewalk the road below
some early lunchers headed across the street to the diner a horn and a wave from the cab of the truck as it rumbled by a couple of buzzards circling out over the lot out behind the feed and seed
a dog part hound part lab part shepherd chases after a squirrel running into the street another honk of a horn a squeal of the wheels the dog returning to the sidewalk
ron johnson his mom she says placing a hand on his shoulder she says your daddy he'll be here shortly ron johnson he nods he says
yeah
ron johnson he watches the road nothing else to do hands in his pocket he watches the road he glances up at the sun glances over to the big magnolia a couple of crows screaming down at a large jay who perches two branches below ron johnson he notices but doesn't remember
one day when he cares he will
remember
he will remember
he looks out the the lawn looks out into the far afternoon haze through the window of his discontent out onto a place where faeries and tinkerbells flitter and fart about the forest floor about the blooms here and there iris and daffodil shiver and shake and shudder virgins in the convent behind the walls the crumbling walls the only thing between their chaste thighs and the marauding hordes those drunken sparkles that gorge themselves on their own arrogance on the moaning erojuices that tender sweet pussy nectar freshly squeezed acrobatting about through the air from flower to flower from thistle to whistle from stamen to pistil from chuck to fuck
from chuck to fucking fuck
staring through the window through the window staring
his discontent
turns to find the back and ever so slightly because of the angle of the stairs the top of the sheriff's head so odd to see right there down there that way uncovered beneath the late morning sun his completely bald and naked head scattering razors of bright emptiness when the near noon time rays happened to bounce his way the light giving shape form to the contours of his pinkish skull a slight dip a little more than a mere indentation but much too subtle to claim the crown of crater perhaps a curious concavity when set upon by apollo
perhaps it doesn't exist at all maybe it's merely a projection of the motherfucker's sordid soul his acceptance of the simple state of being that is his own personal inferno here this day hell here any day at this county seat that is jesup where he lives comfortably where he only does what he must doesn't reach up doesn't frown down
and ron johnson he's oh kay with that he's got no problem with a man doing what he's got to do he's oh kay with a man accepting his place
but right now ron johnson he has a big case of not really caring of not really giving a shit not really giving a flying fuck he wonders if the sheriff really cares if the sheriff stays awake at night worrying about what might have been worrying about what might be
ron johnson he don't know what the sheriff does but ron johnson he himself he stays awake at night
sometimes he stays awake at night
kindling that little down deep fire
a fire of big ideas he's got loftiness in his thoughts his feelings
feelings like love love is such a big idea he feels like it feels like love feels like it's just a few words on a page sometimes elegant sometimes crude often fumbling fumbling fumbling
ron johnson he's got big ideas he's got loftiness he just can't see them where he stands he can see them on a map on a piece of paper but he just hasn't figured out how to get there how to get from where he is to where he wants to be ron johnson he has not yet found his path he has not yet found his place in the sun has not yet found his place at the table
maybe he's just an adventure or two away maybe he's an accident waiting to happen
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 coth 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
some early lunchers headed across the street to the diner a horn and a wave from the cab of the truck as it rumbled by a couple of buzzards circling out over the lot out behind the feed and seed
a dog part hound part lab part shepherd chases after a squirrel running into the street another honk of a horn a squeal of the wheels the dog returning to the sidewalk
ron johnson his mom she says placing a hand on his shoulder she says your daddy he'll be here shortly ron johnson he nods he says
yeah
ron johnson he watches the road nothing else to do hands in his pocket he watches the road he glances up at the sun glances over to the big magnolia a couple of crows screaming down at a large jay who perches two branches below ron johnson he notices but doesn't remember
one day when he cares he will
remember
he will remember
he looks out the the lawn looks out into the far afternoon haze through the window of his discontent out onto a place where faeries and tinkerbells flitter and fart about the forest floor about the blooms here and there iris and daffodil shiver and shake and shudder virgins in the convent behind the walls the crumbling walls the only thing between their chaste thighs and the marauding hordes those drunken sparkles that gorge themselves on their own arrogance on the moaning erojuices that tender sweet pussy nectar freshly squeezed acrobatting about through the air from flower to flower from thistle to whistle from stamen to pistil from chuck to fuck
from chuck to fucking fuck
staring through the window through the window staring
his discontent
turns to find the back and ever so slightly because of the angle of the stairs the top of the sheriff's head so odd to see right there down there that way uncovered beneath the late morning sun his completely bald and naked head scattering razors of bright emptiness when the near noon time rays happened to bounce his way the light giving shape form to the contours of his pinkish skull a slight dip a little more than a mere indentation but much too subtle to claim the crown of crater perhaps a curious concavity when set upon by apollo
perhaps it doesn't exist at all maybe it's merely a projection of the motherfucker's sordid soul his acceptance of the simple state of being that is his own personal inferno here this day hell here any day at this county seat that is jesup where he lives comfortably where he only does what he must doesn't reach up doesn't frown down
and ron johnson he's oh kay with that he's got no problem with a man doing what he's got to do he's oh kay with a man accepting his place
but right now ron johnson he has a big case of not really caring of not really giving a shit not really giving a flying fuck he wonders if the sheriff really cares if the sheriff stays awake at night worrying about what might have been worrying about what might be
ron johnson he don't know what the sheriff does but ron johnson he himself he stays awake at night
sometimes he stays awake at night
kindling that little down deep fire
a fire of big ideas he's got loftiness in his thoughts his feelings
feelings like love love is such a big idea he feels like it feels like love feels like it's just a few words on a page sometimes elegant sometimes crude often fumbling fumbling fumbling
ron johnson he's got big ideas he's got loftiness he just can't see them where he stands he can see them on a map on a piece of paper but he just hasn't figured out how to get there how to get from where he is to where he wants to be ron johnson he has not yet found his path he has not yet found his place in the sun has not yet found his place at the table
maybe he's just an adventure or two away maybe he's an accident waiting to happen
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 coth 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
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Jesup, Part the Second (a new chapter)
ron's momma waits for him at the top of the steps on the wide white marble veranda ron lifting one foot after another the bleached snowy stone staccato heavy and dull on this morning echoing a somber flat note
this august morning
this morning that has taken forever to get going this morning set in the middle of this fucking swamp of time that they have circled circumnavigated circumscribed circle jerked about all summer
ron would just as soon shoot his wad get on with it
ron all of eighteen not far from nineteen having finished up his freshman courses at emory university that fine establishment of higher learning nestled away in a halcyon-laced fuzzy forest green shire in the middle of modern atlanta finished up freshman year a couple months back a lifetime ago well after planting season around about in june not an exceptional year his professors not proclaiming his academic prowess not declaring him a bastion of pedagogic future
he has not yet found his place in the sun has not yet unleashed his passion for learning within those hallowed halls
ron johnson who has been known to run naked through the corridors of dobbs hall bong in hand acid on his brain a red brown farmer's tan contrasting against pasty pale skin and orangish yellow pubic hairs that run a thin trickling tickle all the way up to his freckly puss
he ron johnson no he has not yet found his path he has not yet found that yellow brick road that land of milk and honey that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow all he has found maybe is a little bit of his own private idaho
and even that
sketchy
at best
and even that
a vaporous cyclorama undulating in a rhythm uncertain a song composed of oft-hidden notes randomly poking their sweet little heads out from behind the rocks cluttering the landscape distinguishing his high desert from the bonneville salt flats of non-existence of utter boredom
he ron johnson no he has not yet found his path but he has tucked a year of schooling behind him one down how many more to go
depends oh it just depends
but he has tucked one more year behind him and he is back in jesup same as it always was hey howdy mister mac how's them soy beans growing this year hey howdy mister henry i hope this dry spell don't harm your corn none hey howdy johnny james your daddy buy you another transam
the azaleas the rhododendrons my my in june oh my in july tsk tsk in a drought wrought august
ron johnson his momma waits for him at the top of the steps on the wide white marble veranda
of the courthouse
big white columns reaching to the heavens supporting the cushioned divan of justice herself she who lounges in her silken robes
blindfolded
her legs gently parted
easily parted
by those who could by those who would
his momma who stands at the top of the wide wide steps her arms crossed across her blue oxford shirt her short legs extending from the spotlessly clean and pressed knee length khaki skirt an august bandanna wrapped about and beneath to keep her brownish blondish hair off the nape of the neck
which sports twin trails of perspiration a slow salty spirit of the morning
she smiles purposefully weak at first to express not her displeasure simply her wounding disappointment but as ron johnson gets closer her smile widens into a grin she can't be too disappointed in such a boy the way he looks up at her the way he humbles himself before her the way he touches the brim of his cap and nods she cluck-clucks and chuckles inwardly at his goofy big feet too big for the steps she can't be disappointed in him in her only son after all
god so loved the world and all that
this august morning
this morning that has taken forever to get going this morning set in the middle of this fucking swamp of time that they have circled circumnavigated circumscribed circle jerked about all summer
ron would just as soon shoot his wad get on with it
ron all of eighteen not far from nineteen having finished up his freshman courses at emory university that fine establishment of higher learning nestled away in a halcyon-laced fuzzy forest green shire in the middle of modern atlanta finished up freshman year a couple months back a lifetime ago well after planting season around about in june not an exceptional year his professors not proclaiming his academic prowess not declaring him a bastion of pedagogic future
he has not yet found his place in the sun has not yet unleashed his passion for learning within those hallowed halls
ron johnson who has been known to run naked through the corridors of dobbs hall bong in hand acid on his brain a red brown farmer's tan contrasting against pasty pale skin and orangish yellow pubic hairs that run a thin trickling tickle all the way up to his freckly puss
he ron johnson no he has not yet found his path he has not yet found that yellow brick road that land of milk and honey that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow all he has found maybe is a little bit of his own private idaho
and even that
sketchy
at best
and even that
a vaporous cyclorama undulating in a rhythm uncertain a song composed of oft-hidden notes randomly poking their sweet little heads out from behind the rocks cluttering the landscape distinguishing his high desert from the bonneville salt flats of non-existence of utter boredom
he ron johnson no he has not yet found his path but he has tucked a year of schooling behind him one down how many more to go
depends oh it just depends
but he has tucked one more year behind him and he is back in jesup same as it always was hey howdy mister mac how's them soy beans growing this year hey howdy mister henry i hope this dry spell don't harm your corn none hey howdy johnny james your daddy buy you another transam
the azaleas the rhododendrons my my in june oh my in july tsk tsk in a drought wrought august
ron johnson his momma waits for him at the top of the steps on the wide white marble veranda
of the courthouse
big white columns reaching to the heavens supporting the cushioned divan of justice herself she who lounges in her silken robes
blindfolded
her legs gently parted
easily parted
by those who could by those who would
his momma who stands at the top of the wide wide steps her arms crossed across her blue oxford shirt her short legs extending from the spotlessly clean and pressed knee length khaki skirt an august bandanna wrapped about and beneath to keep her brownish blondish hair off the nape of the neck
which sports twin trails of perspiration a slow salty spirit of the morning
she smiles purposefully weak at first to express not her displeasure simply her wounding disappointment but as ron johnson gets closer her smile widens into a grin she can't be too disappointed in such a boy the way he looks up at her the way he humbles himself before her the way he touches the brim of his cap and nods she cluck-clucks and chuckles inwardly at his goofy big feet too big for the steps she can't be disappointed in him in her only son after all
god so loved the world and all that
Jesup, Part the First (a rewrite)
jesup part the first, a reading
the humidity hangs heavily upon the wiregrass and pines around the spanish bayonets that nobly slit and tear through the slithering puffiness that threatens to smother that threatens to leach their vigor deep green daggers of discipline that slash at the moaning souls swinging swords of righteousness lacerating the dank stirring it sending it scooting scurrying up through within amidst the spanish moss that floats from the cedar the cypress dripping down in fibrous wafts these graying vessels of ghosts of ancestors and friends of souls seeking sustenance souls unrequited gasping for breath in this mugginess this sticky airlessness that hovers above pressing down upon the world this world upon the two-lane blacktop that bisects this endless bog splitting this swamp in two the road a ribbon of sizzling asphalt running right down through this isolated impoverished land of hookworm pellagra athlete's foot
the dull silver light refracts through this humid prism swims a ballet a wondrous june taylor dancer spectacular does a jello wiggle go go girl shimmy in the cage that is south georgia as the truck rumbles grumbles
a single pair of tired eyes looking out the window splotches of dying of brown wiry death leading right up to the line of pine soldiers a thousand deep marching down through georgia on their way to the soft white beaches maybe a hundred miles away all the way down in that part of the state that no man's land between macon and the coast down along the alapaha river making its way
meandering on around
way down through the wasteland to jesup just a little clearing in the woods don't know how they got there don't know why they stayed it's just a bend in the river down around about the middle of but not quite near nowhere
some call it home some call it theirs
some call only to get a busy signal
some call it way down there way over yonder just as general sherman marched from atlanta to milledgeville to savannah across the river and on into the carolinas
yeah back in the day back in those times back when they gave a shit them a conquered people
humbled and stubborn and angry and bitter and run back driven back into the bushes with their tails between their legs reminded of their humiliation over and over and over again
every day
shit it happens but when it does
they sanctify the lord god in their hearts ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh a reason of the hope that is with meekness and fear
their lord god who abandons them in their time of need lord god who abandons them wanders his old trails his familiar paths touching the anointed ones disregarding those who abandoned him first
he's a jealous god he's a mischievous god
but he's their god he's all they got
and the chevy shortbed pickup pulls into town ambles along past hardware store and five and dime and gulf station slows to a stop alongside the curb its motor turning over hesitantly like it ain't yet done like it don't want to stop it's got a couple more firings left in the plugs
an old smoker climbing the last step of the staircase the truck it wheezes it coughs it burps it gives
a shudder a shake
a sunday morning hangover sitting on the toilet a sweaty chill going up the old man's spine the bowels flutter wind and drop tight whiskey bound shit plop plop
a loosening a release
an ah fuck
a couple of dirt clods dried earthen meatloaves having attached themselves to the undercarriage after the last heavy rain after the last slow splashing trudge across the muck of the fen near the family farm having attached themselves to the undercarriage like muddy land-barnacles they these melangesque scum chunks they let go their desperate clinging they casually dislodge themselves from below the rear fender they fall tumble through the monoxide thickness land explode into a series of tiny mushroom puffs
a nothingness that floats heavenward
a body moves behind a windshield painted with the corpses of a thousand coupling love bugs a weary molasses shadow just beyond the thin outline of wiper tracks where the brittle rubber blades once danced in vain not that it matters not that the world this day presents any vivid disneyana upon which to gaze
the door wheezes open one then two brogans step heavily onto the runner onto the road back of the sleeve wipes the brow as the feed and seed cap is lifted eyes squint into the harsh nauseousness of the day
not a cloud to be seen not even a wisp not even a haze don't matter none ain't no nevermind the late morning august sky in jesup still about as tired and grey and lifeless as the old gelding's limp dick ain't much good come out of it exceptin' a weak piss an afternoon sprinklin' that don't do no good precipitation that hardly hits ground before returning home the ground this time of the year this part of the coastal summer this south georgia hell hole just up the road from brunswick just down the road from savannah a land so scorched and dry the grass it snaps crackles pops as ron johnson he takes the slow walk across the courthouse lawn to the big white marble steps that lead up to the big wooden doors that open to this seat of county governance that lead up to this morning's hearing that
lead up to his tomorrow
the pines and shrubbery a dull drooping green the azaleas browning at the edges their flowers crumpled dead beneath and ignored by the gang of stink bugs batting about the collection of rolypolies balled up in the dust
the magnolia though thick with leaves appears not to cast even the whisper of a shadow
a couple of tweets maybe they're finches perhaps they're wrens they peck about so slowly the insects barely have to move to avoid being made a meal a gnarly feral cat gazes lazily from its nap its hunger pangs submissive to the heat and humidity hoping its avian dinner will wait til later
a miserable fuck of a place jesup in august
the only life seemingly worth living the only life with a purpose this morning this unending moment in time this world so heavy that the hands of the clock crawl through the sorghum air barely budging barely punching their way to the next second the next minute the only life with any will to continue these vicious little fire ants little fiendish fuckers frantically scurrying about the several templish mounds arising up from the middle of the yard like some post-apocalyptic sodom and gomorrah
they the fire ants go about their business moving grains of sand from here to there waiting for maybe daring some flip flop wearing fool to stumble across provoke them into a swarming red menace
god's curse wrought by herman talmadge by jay bee stoner by the knights by the brotherhood
my sweet lord
this heat
such a long slow death
a poor soul might as well just go ahead take out the black jack throw away the cork take a shot take another guzzle the rest put the pedal to the metal toss the bottle to the wind drive on into the drainage ditch run the front of the truck into the culvert drive the steering post through your chest smash the life out of your broken heart goddamn better to go out in a flash
than to whither away like these magnolia blossoms
better to follow all those others over the last few years drunken high school volunteer soldiers of death don't you know all you gotta do release the wheel spread your arms wide sing a song for jesus
a bottle a blindfold light up a fag pull back the hammer with a click squeeze the trigger
shitty shitty bang bang
hum the henry miller mantra lo the freedom to kill ourselves is that one true advantage we humble humans have over god
the humidity hangs heavily upon the wiregrass and pines around the spanish bayonets that nobly slit and tear through the slithering puffiness that threatens to smother that threatens to leach their vigor deep green daggers of discipline that slash at the moaning souls swinging swords of righteousness lacerating the dank stirring it sending it scooting scurrying up through within amidst the spanish moss that floats from the cedar the cypress dripping down in fibrous wafts these graying vessels of ghosts of ancestors and friends of souls seeking sustenance souls unrequited gasping for breath in this mugginess this sticky airlessness that hovers above pressing down upon the world this world upon the two-lane blacktop that bisects this endless bog splitting this swamp in two the road a ribbon of sizzling asphalt running right down through this isolated impoverished land of hookworm pellagra athlete's foot
the dull silver light refracts through this humid prism swims a ballet a wondrous june taylor dancer spectacular does a jello wiggle go go girl shimmy in the cage that is south georgia as the truck rumbles grumbles
a single pair of tired eyes looking out the window splotches of dying of brown wiry death leading right up to the line of pine soldiers a thousand deep marching down through georgia on their way to the soft white beaches maybe a hundred miles away all the way down in that part of the state that no man's land between macon and the coast down along the alapaha river making its way
meandering on around
way down through the wasteland to jesup just a little clearing in the woods don't know how they got there don't know why they stayed it's just a bend in the river down around about the middle of but not quite near nowhere
some call it home some call it theirs
some call only to get a busy signal
some call it way down there way over yonder just as general sherman marched from atlanta to milledgeville to savannah across the river and on into the carolinas
yeah back in the day back in those times back when they gave a shit them a conquered people
humbled and stubborn and angry and bitter and run back driven back into the bushes with their tails between their legs reminded of their humiliation over and over and over again
every day
shit it happens but when it does
they sanctify the lord god in their hearts ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh a reason of the hope that is with meekness and fear
their lord god who abandons them in their time of need lord god who abandons them wanders his old trails his familiar paths touching the anointed ones disregarding those who abandoned him first
he's a jealous god he's a mischievous god
but he's their god he's all they got
and the chevy shortbed pickup pulls into town ambles along past hardware store and five and dime and gulf station slows to a stop alongside the curb its motor turning over hesitantly like it ain't yet done like it don't want to stop it's got a couple more firings left in the plugs
an old smoker climbing the last step of the staircase the truck it wheezes it coughs it burps it gives
a shudder a shake
a sunday morning hangover sitting on the toilet a sweaty chill going up the old man's spine the bowels flutter wind and drop tight whiskey bound shit plop plop
a loosening a release
an ah fuck
a couple of dirt clods dried earthen meatloaves having attached themselves to the undercarriage after the last heavy rain after the last slow splashing trudge across the muck of the fen near the family farm having attached themselves to the undercarriage like muddy land-barnacles they these melangesque scum chunks they let go their desperate clinging they casually dislodge themselves from below the rear fender they fall tumble through the monoxide thickness land explode into a series of tiny mushroom puffs
a nothingness that floats heavenward
a body moves behind a windshield painted with the corpses of a thousand coupling love bugs a weary molasses shadow just beyond the thin outline of wiper tracks where the brittle rubber blades once danced in vain not that it matters not that the world this day presents any vivid disneyana upon which to gaze
the door wheezes open one then two brogans step heavily onto the runner onto the road back of the sleeve wipes the brow as the feed and seed cap is lifted eyes squint into the harsh nauseousness of the day
not a cloud to be seen not even a wisp not even a haze don't matter none ain't no nevermind the late morning august sky in jesup still about as tired and grey and lifeless as the old gelding's limp dick ain't much good come out of it exceptin' a weak piss an afternoon sprinklin' that don't do no good precipitation that hardly hits ground before returning home the ground this time of the year this part of the coastal summer this south georgia hell hole just up the road from brunswick just down the road from savannah a land so scorched and dry the grass it snaps crackles pops as ron johnson he takes the slow walk across the courthouse lawn to the big white marble steps that lead up to the big wooden doors that open to this seat of county governance that lead up to this morning's hearing that
lead up to his tomorrow
the pines and shrubbery a dull drooping green the azaleas browning at the edges their flowers crumpled dead beneath and ignored by the gang of stink bugs batting about the collection of rolypolies balled up in the dust
the magnolia though thick with leaves appears not to cast even the whisper of a shadow
a couple of tweets maybe they're finches perhaps they're wrens they peck about so slowly the insects barely have to move to avoid being made a meal a gnarly feral cat gazes lazily from its nap its hunger pangs submissive to the heat and humidity hoping its avian dinner will wait til later
a miserable fuck of a place jesup in august
the only life seemingly worth living the only life with a purpose this morning this unending moment in time this world so heavy that the hands of the clock crawl through the sorghum air barely budging barely punching their way to the next second the next minute the only life with any will to continue these vicious little fire ants little fiendish fuckers frantically scurrying about the several templish mounds arising up from the middle of the yard like some post-apocalyptic sodom and gomorrah
they the fire ants go about their business moving grains of sand from here to there waiting for maybe daring some flip flop wearing fool to stumble across provoke them into a swarming red menace
god's curse wrought by herman talmadge by jay bee stoner by the knights by the brotherhood
my sweet lord
this heat
such a long slow death
a poor soul might as well just go ahead take out the black jack throw away the cork take a shot take another guzzle the rest put the pedal to the metal toss the bottle to the wind drive on into the drainage ditch run the front of the truck into the culvert drive the steering post through your chest smash the life out of your broken heart goddamn better to go out in a flash
than to whither away like these magnolia blossoms
better to follow all those others over the last few years drunken high school volunteer soldiers of death don't you know all you gotta do release the wheel spread your arms wide sing a song for jesus
a bottle a blindfold light up a fag pull back the hammer with a click squeeze the trigger
shitty shitty bang bang
hum the henry miller mantra lo the freedom to kill ourselves is that one true advantage we humble humans have over god
Monday, September 13, 2010
amsterdam a short tale of lost
and then there was the one where the stoned cracker once again found himself dazed and confused and a little lost yes both in his head and geographically these fucking canals they all look alike they curve and slide and he goes this way and that and he's been coming to this town for fifteen years and he still gets lost perhaps worse now more than ever maybe it's the weed maybe it's age maybe it's genetics maybe the weight of his cock throws him off balance and a ten minute walk from neumarket turned into maybe ninety even with the lovely helpful dutch boys and girls pointing him hinder and yonder and it was only when he was just about to give up claim a bench to maybe gaze into the misty neon for the remainder of the evening the morning when there she was his hotel just dropped into his lap like a drunk stripper
serendipity it just seems to look over him
ah amsterdam and all that
serendipity it just seems to look over him
ah amsterdam and all that
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Man in the Woods
a re-posting...just because...
*****************
the man in the woods
he cries and i don't know why
i'm running through the redwoods the dank stank puddles around about my nostrils flaring with my geezer wind desperate breathing desperation bleating in out in out the days yes oh yes the days remember the days maybe only hours ago when the in the out it meant something else it meant the same thing else it didn't
breathe just breathe
remember when a fuck was but a fuck
the man in the woods he cries and i don't know why is he jesus does he cry for me do his tears wash over me do his tears wash away my sins does he whisper as i run by does he beseech number one number two does he sit behind door number three me i'm running by like an escaped convict running by like gayle sayers running by like a cat with a firecracker tied to his tail does he whisper do i hear sifting through his gritted teeth above the pain beneath our salvation does he tremble as he utters
father forgive him he knows not the misery he passes he knows not the misery he's left behind
like the snail trails traipsing down last night's trousers stained from the love that could have been lo a gentle weeping j'accuse no finger extended no pointing of the pelvis perhaps a nudge of the chin in my direction
i am so guilty
of not giving a shit i know i know all i want to do is run all i want to do is prance through the woods all i want to do is slip slide on out the door sprinkle me some pixie dust paint me a path run me down the rosy road to ruin turn this way turn that way spin about do the hokey pokey play ex box with my cock a doodle do dah do dah camptown racetrack five miles long long way to tipperary tippecanoe tyler too run jesse run zippity do dah zippy the pinhead twenty three skiddoo hey hey george double-you throw down a bucket of sand do the old soft shoe and
here's gee eye johnny
we don't have dick nixon to push around any more
clowns to the left of me jokers to my right here i am stuck in the middle of the redwoods with my conscience pissing against the tree his limp worm of a cock all shriveled up him shaking it viciously cursing moaning lamenting that his tears flow more easily than his stream
and the general he salutes his friends on the street with his ritual morning greeting he says with a tip o' the brim he asks
and how is the vigor of your stream today my friend
and the general he toasts his friends at dinner with the autumnal blessing he says with a tip of the flute he declares
and may the vigor of your stream be strong and powerful til your dying days
a sigh a smile a wistful look back
at love oh
what of love
i run from love while my brothers my cousins my sisters my friends who aren't my brothers who aren't my cousins who aren't my sisters who aren't my friends they crawl through the desert such sand roaches with infrared binoculars and sticks that go bang and stones that go bang bang bang really fast really loud farting a staccato hiss of bullets and bad thoughts each one with an engraved invitation to meet in hell sip a beer talk about old times hey remember
the time when i saw you sitting in your window stirring your strong coffee with that little spoon your baby on your lap
hey remember when i shot you didn't see it coming did you did you
remember when you and your screaming banshee of a tribe came running from the fiery womb you too forgot you too were running from your misery we're all running from our misery running like a nose running like your mommas hose running like whaddya gonna go see running ring around the rosy pocket full of posies goddamn we're all running i'm just putting you yeah me and these little bullets whizzing through the air
we're just
putting you out of your misery
hey remember when i shot you and you and you and you and your momma and your daddy
yes darlin' i am your daddy i eat your lunch
i run away while my brother rumbles across the desert in his mobile metal monster mashing mortals beneath betwixt breathing fire ferreting out evil whacking the mole of terrorism waiting for it to spring up elsewhere in the desert that's all right that's ok hell yeah i'll be there when you pop up bitch i can stay at code level orange forever i'll whack you back into the stone age spewing leaflets of love and democracy
vote or die cocksucker
you don't vote you got no excuse fuck your excuses i'm tired of your excuses you're only a camel fucking faggot raghead the only good raghead is a dead raghead the only good faggot is a dead faggot the only good camel is the one i stole from you slit its throat and used its blood to defile your wife
i am hellfire and yours is the burning flesh
we will leave a trail of familial deadends your father and your father's father and your father's father's father will go only backwards they will see no light there is no future for you and your kind the buck stops here ends right here end of the line buddy last stop in brooklyn dead end the bridge to nowhere has crumbled into the abyss below
i piss on your corpse because i can it don't bother me one bit i get up the next morning i go to work i am television i express my views both fair and balanced all the views fit to print spread my views like the dew does on dixie i dunk my donut i sip my tea all warm in its quilted cozy i go home to my loved ones my wife hands me my pipe my martini two olives very dry takes my coat i roll up my sleeves loosen my tie put up my feet read my paper
june come cuddle my cock what have wally and the beave done now
i will never go to eye rack i will never send my sons i will never step foot in that rotten land i don't have to go we have those that will get on that jet plane not care when they come home again and i will never i will not think of them again
never no not ever
fuck 'em
and why should i when i can run through the redwoods spread before me in their glorious splendor when i can slide down snowy slopes on broadband boards with finely honed edges arms hands extended from leopard skin goretex jumpsuits into fashionably feathery wings george clinton that old nigger got nothing on me hey look ma i'm flying and i paid two hundred dollars for the privilege and i'll do it again and again and again
wake up and piss the world is set afire give me my fiddle there is no hope
one two three
ah but there is hope there will be change
he who comes in on the one twenty from chicago a black man wearing a white hat he carries the gospel of gumbo in a slop bucket we sip of his blood he tosses the biscuits of the lowly bastard we eat of his flesh
i believe oh i do believe
in the father the son the holy ghost i stand tall give him the big hurrah the big hurrah the big hurrah three cheers i know he will absorb the twenty one gun salute bring peace to the valley he will go tell it on the mountain he will let freedom ring sweet land of liberty
can i get an amen
he has the spatula to spread democracy like sweet butter on hot from the oven bread poppin' fresh freddie's dead that's what i said
simmering simians in uniform load 'em up move 'em out keep those dogies moving roll 'em roll 'em roll 'em
rawhide
yeehah
in twenty fourteen
i took a little trip
went with colonel 'bama
along a mighty missile tip
we took a little bacon
we took a few beans
we fought the bloody banshees
in the shadow of the baghdad queen
we fired our guns
and they kept a'comin'
not quite as many as there was a while ago
we fired once more
and they began a'runnin'
down the euphrates to the persian gulf and all the way back to the stone age to bedrock hanging with fred and wilma barney and betty way over down around the mountain when she comes swing low sweet chariot coming forth to carry me home down by the river through the woods across the rubble in afghanistan and and and we chase 'em yeah we chase 'em leave the fires raging behind us ain't got time for no sunni shiite kurdish bullshit gonna leave this war behind us exit stage right heavens to murgatroy this is a bad war this is a no no war this is a fucked up war we got voted out of this war we gots no time for this war we got no time to go home ain't got no time to drop by give june a smooch a solid pokin' get me a little strokin' we gots to find us a better war we got to find other peoples to kill and smoke and whack and slice and dice and strap down to a board
ah the cool cool water
and lot's wife she turned toward sodom she saw the wickedness crumble behind her lo tho lot beseeched her to close her eyes to swing her head she bore witness to god's evil and god made her into a pillar of salt
goddamn god his guns his gutless wonder
oh there's hope there will be change
my brother who is not my brother crawling through the poppies poppin' caps in pakistani puds pulling black sacks over the heads of bad guys as they disappear
from even themselves
oh i believe i do believe i believe that he that comes before us waving his hands pointing at those behind him with dismay and disappointment
he who is so well spoken
black orpheus stand atop your mountain in your flowing robes tell me you are different tell me that you will make a difference i just won't believe you until the wars have stopped they've never worked there's never been a good war there's never been a just war black orpheus stand atop your mountain in your flowing robes tell me you will make a difference show me you make a difference because until you do until you put some wind behind that flag you wave
i giess i will simply saunter on by keep running on past my
man in the woods
as he cries and i still won't know why
i still won't give a shit it just hurts too much
i'll run through the redwoods the dank stank puddles around about my nostrils desperate for fresh air cigarettes more soothing than more of the same bleating in out in out remembering the days to come the days that could have been yes the days maybe only hours ago when the in the out it had meant something else had meant the same thing else it didn't i will need to remember to
breathe just breathe
remember when a fuck was but a fuck and all that
*****************
the man in the woods
he cries and i don't know why
i'm running through the redwoods the dank stank puddles around about my nostrils flaring with my geezer wind desperate breathing desperation bleating in out in out the days yes oh yes the days remember the days maybe only hours ago when the in the out it meant something else it meant the same thing else it didn't
breathe just breathe
remember when a fuck was but a fuck
the man in the woods he cries and i don't know why is he jesus does he cry for me do his tears wash over me do his tears wash away my sins does he whisper as i run by does he beseech number one number two does he sit behind door number three me i'm running by like an escaped convict running by like gayle sayers running by like a cat with a firecracker tied to his tail does he whisper do i hear sifting through his gritted teeth above the pain beneath our salvation does he tremble as he utters
father forgive him he knows not the misery he passes he knows not the misery he's left behind
like the snail trails traipsing down last night's trousers stained from the love that could have been lo a gentle weeping j'accuse no finger extended no pointing of the pelvis perhaps a nudge of the chin in my direction
i am so guilty
of not giving a shit i know i know all i want to do is run all i want to do is prance through the woods all i want to do is slip slide on out the door sprinkle me some pixie dust paint me a path run me down the rosy road to ruin turn this way turn that way spin about do the hokey pokey play ex box with my cock a doodle do dah do dah camptown racetrack five miles long long way to tipperary tippecanoe tyler too run jesse run zippity do dah zippy the pinhead twenty three skiddoo hey hey george double-you throw down a bucket of sand do the old soft shoe and
here's gee eye johnny
we don't have dick nixon to push around any more
clowns to the left of me jokers to my right here i am stuck in the middle of the redwoods with my conscience pissing against the tree his limp worm of a cock all shriveled up him shaking it viciously cursing moaning lamenting that his tears flow more easily than his stream
and the general he salutes his friends on the street with his ritual morning greeting he says with a tip o' the brim he asks
and how is the vigor of your stream today my friend
and the general he toasts his friends at dinner with the autumnal blessing he says with a tip of the flute he declares
and may the vigor of your stream be strong and powerful til your dying days
a sigh a smile a wistful look back
at love oh
what of love
i run from love while my brothers my cousins my sisters my friends who aren't my brothers who aren't my cousins who aren't my sisters who aren't my friends they crawl through the desert such sand roaches with infrared binoculars and sticks that go bang and stones that go bang bang bang really fast really loud farting a staccato hiss of bullets and bad thoughts each one with an engraved invitation to meet in hell sip a beer talk about old times hey remember
the time when i saw you sitting in your window stirring your strong coffee with that little spoon your baby on your lap
hey remember when i shot you didn't see it coming did you did you
remember when you and your screaming banshee of a tribe came running from the fiery womb you too forgot you too were running from your misery we're all running from our misery running like a nose running like your mommas hose running like whaddya gonna go see running ring around the rosy pocket full of posies goddamn we're all running i'm just putting you yeah me and these little bullets whizzing through the air
we're just
putting you out of your misery
hey remember when i shot you and you and you and you and your momma and your daddy
yes darlin' i am your daddy i eat your lunch
i run away while my brother rumbles across the desert in his mobile metal monster mashing mortals beneath betwixt breathing fire ferreting out evil whacking the mole of terrorism waiting for it to spring up elsewhere in the desert that's all right that's ok hell yeah i'll be there when you pop up bitch i can stay at code level orange forever i'll whack you back into the stone age spewing leaflets of love and democracy
vote or die cocksucker
you don't vote you got no excuse fuck your excuses i'm tired of your excuses you're only a camel fucking faggot raghead the only good raghead is a dead raghead the only good faggot is a dead faggot the only good camel is the one i stole from you slit its throat and used its blood to defile your wife
i am hellfire and yours is the burning flesh
we will leave a trail of familial deadends your father and your father's father and your father's father's father will go only backwards they will see no light there is no future for you and your kind the buck stops here ends right here end of the line buddy last stop in brooklyn dead end the bridge to nowhere has crumbled into the abyss below
i piss on your corpse because i can it don't bother me one bit i get up the next morning i go to work i am television i express my views both fair and balanced all the views fit to print spread my views like the dew does on dixie i dunk my donut i sip my tea all warm in its quilted cozy i go home to my loved ones my wife hands me my pipe my martini two olives very dry takes my coat i roll up my sleeves loosen my tie put up my feet read my paper
june come cuddle my cock what have wally and the beave done now
i will never go to eye rack i will never send my sons i will never step foot in that rotten land i don't have to go we have those that will get on that jet plane not care when they come home again and i will never i will not think of them again
never no not ever
fuck 'em
and why should i when i can run through the redwoods spread before me in their glorious splendor when i can slide down snowy slopes on broadband boards with finely honed edges arms hands extended from leopard skin goretex jumpsuits into fashionably feathery wings george clinton that old nigger got nothing on me hey look ma i'm flying and i paid two hundred dollars for the privilege and i'll do it again and again and again
wake up and piss the world is set afire give me my fiddle there is no hope
one two three
ah but there is hope there will be change
he who comes in on the one twenty from chicago a black man wearing a white hat he carries the gospel of gumbo in a slop bucket we sip of his blood he tosses the biscuits of the lowly bastard we eat of his flesh
i believe oh i do believe
in the father the son the holy ghost i stand tall give him the big hurrah the big hurrah the big hurrah three cheers i know he will absorb the twenty one gun salute bring peace to the valley he will go tell it on the mountain he will let freedom ring sweet land of liberty
can i get an amen
he has the spatula to spread democracy like sweet butter on hot from the oven bread poppin' fresh freddie's dead that's what i said
simmering simians in uniform load 'em up move 'em out keep those dogies moving roll 'em roll 'em roll 'em
rawhide
yeehah
in twenty fourteen
i took a little trip
went with colonel 'bama
along a mighty missile tip
we took a little bacon
we took a few beans
we fought the bloody banshees
in the shadow of the baghdad queen
we fired our guns
and they kept a'comin'
not quite as many as there was a while ago
we fired once more
and they began a'runnin'
down the euphrates to the persian gulf and all the way back to the stone age to bedrock hanging with fred and wilma barney and betty way over down around the mountain when she comes swing low sweet chariot coming forth to carry me home down by the river through the woods across the rubble in afghanistan and and and we chase 'em yeah we chase 'em leave the fires raging behind us ain't got time for no sunni shiite kurdish bullshit gonna leave this war behind us exit stage right heavens to murgatroy this is a bad war this is a no no war this is a fucked up war we got voted out of this war we gots no time for this war we got no time to go home ain't got no time to drop by give june a smooch a solid pokin' get me a little strokin' we gots to find us a better war we got to find other peoples to kill and smoke and whack and slice and dice and strap down to a board
ah the cool cool water
and lot's wife she turned toward sodom she saw the wickedness crumble behind her lo tho lot beseeched her to close her eyes to swing her head she bore witness to god's evil and god made her into a pillar of salt
goddamn god his guns his gutless wonder
oh there's hope there will be change
my brother who is not my brother crawling through the poppies poppin' caps in pakistani puds pulling black sacks over the heads of bad guys as they disappear
from even themselves
oh i believe i do believe i believe that he that comes before us waving his hands pointing at those behind him with dismay and disappointment
he who is so well spoken
black orpheus stand atop your mountain in your flowing robes tell me you are different tell me that you will make a difference i just won't believe you until the wars have stopped they've never worked there's never been a good war there's never been a just war black orpheus stand atop your mountain in your flowing robes tell me you will make a difference show me you make a difference because until you do until you put some wind behind that flag you wave
i giess i will simply saunter on by keep running on past my
man in the woods
as he cries and i still won't know why
i still won't give a shit it just hurts too much
i'll run through the redwoods the dank stank puddles around about my nostrils desperate for fresh air cigarettes more soothing than more of the same bleating in out in out remembering the days to come the days that could have been yes the days maybe only hours ago when the in the out it had meant something else had meant the same thing else it didn't i will need to remember to
breathe just breathe
remember when a fuck was but a fuck and all that
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Jesup, Part the Eleventh
and on monday ron is at work he's not working but he's there occupying space and time there at his at his place of summer employment working for bobby's daddy he's out back in the warehouse sitting back leaning back on a stack of big rectangular bags of peat moss laid this way and that in a makeshift lazy boy recliner the dried peat puffing out through tiny air holes each time he moves each time he fidgets he ron he relaxes watching the morning clock tick tock if he smoked he'd be smoking if he knew where to buy heroin if he knew one could really buy heroin here in jesup he'd probably be running it up floating away doing that magic carpet ride up and out of town but the clock it ticks it tocks one slow second after the other some balzacian reminder of anticipated guilt he ron he wastes time his time his boss's time his boss's money too he ron he relaxes finds his zone finds his daytime nocturnal rhythm infusing his post weekend tripster ennui with long lip pursing sips from the warm and now melted grape slurpee picked up from the suwannee swiftee this morning when he stopped for gas the syrupy stickiness of the concoction wrought upon this earth by refugees from the coca cola gulag a nehi dynasty dancing on his tongue like the bare feet of a dozen sugar cane workers just in from a hot afternoon of burning off the field
his lips smack but not with anything close to enjoyment
not that anything might ease these maudlin monday morning blues as he sits back leans back beneath the slow hypnotic twirl of one of the several overhead fans that celebrate the ceiling hanging from the rafters on long galvanized pipe he tries to follow the one blade afflicted with the moldy silvery sheen of duct tape wrapped round its midsection a nigger rigged splint that limps round and round and round but he gets dizzy and closes his eyes
only to be awakened seconds minutes hours days weeks later by the crackling cackling of bobby's daddy calling for ron over the intercom
ron where you at boy got a run for yall
ron his eyes do an ultra slow motion flutter stutter and stare into the void that is this his summer of satisfaction he struggles rolls off his bag o' dirt divan gets himself to his feet a little lightheaded stumbles through the shadowed dustiness of the warehouse tripping over a push broom left lingering in the aisle stops to pick it up leans it back up against a cheap pine lattice painted up all redwood not so different from not unlike the one town whore that might show up on a friday saturday night at the cocktail lounge off the lobby of the king of the road motor inn at the edge of town
he goes up to the register at the front of the store bobby's daddy hands him a handwritten ink and tobacco stained invoice says begins to say stops pauses leans over lets loose with a long stringy syrupy spit into the white plastic bucket next to the counter a white bucket already spotted from rim to bottom already having been the recipient of a thousand and twelve shots some on the money some drunkenly hitting the edge splitting the difference bobby's daddy he hands him an invoice says
hey now
pauses fist touched to chest assisting a slight silent gaseous emission says
fill out this here order load up the truck take it on out yonder to the hopkins place
he says bobby's daddy he says the judge he ain't home said he wouldn't be home probably off spending our money on a high priority guv'mint mission to the golf course
bobby's daddy he spits says rather mumbles as he turns says
goddamned lawyers
ron he looks a little confused he starts to ask
stops
waits for bobby's daddy to spit
ron he says so if he ain't home where you think he wants me to heft it
bobby's daddy he spits again an irritating ping into the bucket lets drop the whole used up chaw in behind it with a flat plop he says hell boy don't you go to college to learn or you just up there wastin' your daddy's money smokin' that mary-wanna
bobby's daddy hands now on hips shaking his head he says
shit
he says
hell just unload it stack it all up on the side of the garage
ron he takes the list he studies the list bobby's daddy he wanders out front to have himself another chew he leans over his little foil pack of red man opens his jaw shovels shredded tobacco product into his mouth back up into his cheek packs it in until it's full using his fingers to stuff it all up pack it all up
a long dark thick stream yo yo'ing out between his lips down down bouncing up down down slowly down a little further bouncing up dripping down dancing on the bungee cord a little further til he bobby's daddy he grits his teeth tightens his lips just a bit cutting off the tobacco taffy pull watching it splat down onto the sidewalk outside
a few tannic drops spattering leaping onto his creased ben davis breeches
ron walks back to the office to get the keys to the truck he stops at the old black phone on the desk dials out the seven numbers one painfully after another too many nines and eights
hello
hey you home
duh
i got a delivery out to your place your old man playing golf you gonna be there i'm coming over
the voice on the other end of the line a pause a little short gasp barely audible the voice on the other end it says
cool hurry up and come on i'll be in the day room downstairs it's cooler back there
see you in a bit
and ron he glances down at the list as he backs the truck up to the warehouse loading dock
and ron he loads the truck with a few bags of soil a few bags of peat moss one still holding his butt print like a plaster of paris mold a few bags of mulch four large potted azalea plants
and ron he jumps off the loading dock and climbs behind the wheel turning the key to hear a click another click and another then a catch and a whine and a cough and a fart and a grunt and finally a roar
and ron he works the three on the tree and the clutch in two part harmony the tires spin just a bit on the gravel as he punches the gas and leaves the lot
a single rock escapes the rear flaps pops out from beneath the rubber like a tiddly wink
pings
an old tin washtub sitting upside down at the edge of the property painted adorned with the words jesup feed and seed pings it with a
plink
pulls onto the road heads north out toward the edge of town the road that leads out to the hopkins place passes the trailer park with the little fountain gurgling at the entrance separating the coming in from the going out passes fat old mister thomas riding his little red comet riding lawnmower his pale white belly jiggling all jelly roll across his brownish green lawn exhaust and dust and trimmings and lizard legs blowing out the side ron he waves mister thomas he nods touches the brim of his panama hat
the edge of town gives way to plots of pine separating surrounding a couple of small fields one of them hosting a greying wood structure a cabin a shack a home sitting up under beside a tall poplar a clothes line running from the house to a tall post thirty feet away two pair of gym socks a pair of briefs and a thin white sheet pinned to the line limp and hanging contributing to and absorbing the humidity
ron he slows downshifts into second the truck jumps and moans he turns into the long driveway that winds up through a small grove of pecan trees that separates the house from the road running back on into town that splits into a fork near the corner of the house one branch leading up and around the front forming a little circular la-de-da before the faux off white plantation era columns splotched with the stains of this past spring's spider webs the other branch going on around back to the building that serves as garage barn and tool shed
ron has his hands on the steering wheel ten and two the wheel loose and forgiving the tires crunching on the gravel dust puffing up and into the open windows as if the elements conspire to mask the oncoming interloper the big truck moving slowly purposefully on around back up around and next to the garage unseen from the front ron he opens the door with a creak a squeak that breaks the heavy silence of the cloudless midday he looks toward the house
the back door's open
his lips smack but not with anything close to enjoyment
not that anything might ease these maudlin monday morning blues as he sits back leans back beneath the slow hypnotic twirl of one of the several overhead fans that celebrate the ceiling hanging from the rafters on long galvanized pipe he tries to follow the one blade afflicted with the moldy silvery sheen of duct tape wrapped round its midsection a nigger rigged splint that limps round and round and round but he gets dizzy and closes his eyes
only to be awakened seconds minutes hours days weeks later by the crackling cackling of bobby's daddy calling for ron over the intercom
ron where you at boy got a run for yall
ron his eyes do an ultra slow motion flutter stutter and stare into the void that is this his summer of satisfaction he struggles rolls off his bag o' dirt divan gets himself to his feet a little lightheaded stumbles through the shadowed dustiness of the warehouse tripping over a push broom left lingering in the aisle stops to pick it up leans it back up against a cheap pine lattice painted up all redwood not so different from not unlike the one town whore that might show up on a friday saturday night at the cocktail lounge off the lobby of the king of the road motor inn at the edge of town
he goes up to the register at the front of the store bobby's daddy hands him a handwritten ink and tobacco stained invoice says begins to say stops pauses leans over lets loose with a long stringy syrupy spit into the white plastic bucket next to the counter a white bucket already spotted from rim to bottom already having been the recipient of a thousand and twelve shots some on the money some drunkenly hitting the edge splitting the difference bobby's daddy he hands him an invoice says
hey now
pauses fist touched to chest assisting a slight silent gaseous emission says
fill out this here order load up the truck take it on out yonder to the hopkins place
he says bobby's daddy he says the judge he ain't home said he wouldn't be home probably off spending our money on a high priority guv'mint mission to the golf course
bobby's daddy he spits says rather mumbles as he turns says
goddamned lawyers
ron he looks a little confused he starts to ask
stops
waits for bobby's daddy to spit
ron he says so if he ain't home where you think he wants me to heft it
bobby's daddy he spits again an irritating ping into the bucket lets drop the whole used up chaw in behind it with a flat plop he says hell boy don't you go to college to learn or you just up there wastin' your daddy's money smokin' that mary-wanna
bobby's daddy hands now on hips shaking his head he says
shit
he says
hell just unload it stack it all up on the side of the garage
ron he takes the list he studies the list bobby's daddy he wanders out front to have himself another chew he leans over his little foil pack of red man opens his jaw shovels shredded tobacco product into his mouth back up into his cheek packs it in until it's full using his fingers to stuff it all up pack it all up
a long dark thick stream yo yo'ing out between his lips down down bouncing up down down slowly down a little further bouncing up dripping down dancing on the bungee cord a little further til he bobby's daddy he grits his teeth tightens his lips just a bit cutting off the tobacco taffy pull watching it splat down onto the sidewalk outside
a few tannic drops spattering leaping onto his creased ben davis breeches
ron walks back to the office to get the keys to the truck he stops at the old black phone on the desk dials out the seven numbers one painfully after another too many nines and eights
hello
hey you home
duh
i got a delivery out to your place your old man playing golf you gonna be there i'm coming over
the voice on the other end of the line a pause a little short gasp barely audible the voice on the other end it says
cool hurry up and come on i'll be in the day room downstairs it's cooler back there
see you in a bit
and ron he glances down at the list as he backs the truck up to the warehouse loading dock
and ron he loads the truck with a few bags of soil a few bags of peat moss one still holding his butt print like a plaster of paris mold a few bags of mulch four large potted azalea plants
and ron he jumps off the loading dock and climbs behind the wheel turning the key to hear a click another click and another then a catch and a whine and a cough and a fart and a grunt and finally a roar
and ron he works the three on the tree and the clutch in two part harmony the tires spin just a bit on the gravel as he punches the gas and leaves the lot
a single rock escapes the rear flaps pops out from beneath the rubber like a tiddly wink
pings
an old tin washtub sitting upside down at the edge of the property painted adorned with the words jesup feed and seed pings it with a
plink
pulls onto the road heads north out toward the edge of town the road that leads out to the hopkins place passes the trailer park with the little fountain gurgling at the entrance separating the coming in from the going out passes fat old mister thomas riding his little red comet riding lawnmower his pale white belly jiggling all jelly roll across his brownish green lawn exhaust and dust and trimmings and lizard legs blowing out the side ron he waves mister thomas he nods touches the brim of his panama hat
the edge of town gives way to plots of pine separating surrounding a couple of small fields one of them hosting a greying wood structure a cabin a shack a home sitting up under beside a tall poplar a clothes line running from the house to a tall post thirty feet away two pair of gym socks a pair of briefs and a thin white sheet pinned to the line limp and hanging contributing to and absorbing the humidity
ron he slows downshifts into second the truck jumps and moans he turns into the long driveway that winds up through a small grove of pecan trees that separates the house from the road running back on into town that splits into a fork near the corner of the house one branch leading up and around the front forming a little circular la-de-da before the faux off white plantation era columns splotched with the stains of this past spring's spider webs the other branch going on around back to the building that serves as garage barn and tool shed
ron has his hands on the steering wheel ten and two the wheel loose and forgiving the tires crunching on the gravel dust puffing up and into the open windows as if the elements conspire to mask the oncoming interloper the big truck moving slowly purposefully on around back up around and next to the garage unseen from the front ron he opens the door with a creak a squeak that breaks the heavy silence of the cloudless midday he looks toward the house
the back door's open
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