couple of weeks before school is to start couple of weeks before ron johnson his shaggy red hair before they say good bye to jesup
out by the spring that feeds into the river end of august
jimmy the mad bonger he says sitting injun style cross legged on the rock overlooking the springs the white river sand blending in with the dark thin porous soil somehow someway supporting cypress trees cypress knees young girls on their knees pine trees spanish moss spanish bayonets spanish pussy black pussy white pussy hell it’s all pink on the inside pussy willows ferns poison ivy poison oak and blackberry bushes pushing against the dirt road littered with old crushed beer and soda cans cigarette butts potato chip bags empty liquor bottles of all colors shapes sizes giving lie to the seventies’ hype about the natural rustic beauty of the rural south
a few old tires peeking out from beneath the briars moss growing from within reaching out from their north side cracks
an old washing machine sitting serenely within the chilling chokehold of the invading kudzu
two mismatched deteriorating nylon socks clinging to the spindle entwined with the voracious vine hanging on hugging tightly in places loosely in others simply
surviving
like two lovers living two lives
jimmy the mad bonger he says rather starts to say instead watches preppie george finish off his beer crush the aluminum against his forehead absently toss it on the ground two south florida new york long island hippies
how the fuck did they end up here anyway some stoned sense of adventure got off the freeway said hey let's discover america let's just take the backroads let's make an anthropological study of the local populace the native inhabitants of this strange and naked land
they point complain whine moan george flips them off with disdain his middle finger extended arm angled straight down wrist held below the belt the blow me message directly connected to his cock ron johnson and all the jesup boys they all laugh tell the hippies to fuck off go back to new york and save the world it’s summer of nineteen seventy seven in just out side of around jesup georgia the russians and chinese and goddamn a-rabs are going to fuck 'em up anyway fuck 'em up with embargoes and missiles and submarines and the gulag way before some stray consumer container will capture their collective concern
they’re more worried about getting stoned waste their minds just enough so they won’t have to worry about such shit give 'em a candy jar full of blue valium and bootleg disco biscuits give 'em a cow field after a good summer afternoon rain give 'em a bag of panama red colombian gold jamaican wonder hell even mexican brown they’ll deal with the world in their own sweet way
one two three four
country joe is a fucking whore
five six seven eight
god is dead we’re way too late
they are redneck punks preceding the pistols hiding behind the plastic peace love and tie dye passed along to them by their older california cousins their communes crumbling in the calamity of charles manson their music turning sappy and corporate
pablo cruise and the eagles suck souls dry
anyway simple man don’t need ‘em around anyhow
molly hatchet would have sang holiday in cambodia if they gave a shit but they don’t
jimmy the mad bonger he says sitting injun style on the rock overlooking the springs filling up a big old sink hole must be eighty feet across eighty feet deep crystal cool blue water feeding into miles and miles of underground caverns tunnels roads to hell flowing up and out into the bend that collects the black soup of the altamaha river a giant prehistoric garr breaks the lipton tea surface before diving back down below to feast on the rotting carcasses of fish fowl and beast maybe human too who the fuck knows anything about this litter
along the bottom piss and primordial shit melt into the future
jimmy the mad bonger he says flick flick flicking his bic flame to bowl lips to tube it will take years and years to admit cop to the autoerotic allure such a pose presents leaning over the water bubbling gurgling like he’s gagging on his own cock it’s everyman’s dream to give himself a blow job god if only he had the right combination of proper technique and an extra large cock hell even a respectfully large cock flame to bowl lips to tube
jimmy the mad bonger he pauses he says hey let’s take a road trip
steve oh the wild trombone man he says standing alert holding up the pine tree with his shoulder ankles crossed in that casual lean he’s always so stylish in that momma still buys my clothes sort of way everyone else hell they’re all wearing cutoff jeans it’s the john denver seventies nineteen seventy seven the summer thereof a full decade past that proverbial summer of love summer of lies them cutoffs they be cut mighty short redneck fashion balls and ass hanging proudly their own american flag faggot ugly but they were cute goddamn cute in that don’t give a fuck pop me a bud from the cooler peter frampton coming alive through someone’s car speakers sort of way cutoff jeans no shoes no shirt maybe the occasional zeppelin or skynnrd or dark side of the moon tee shirt long haired scraggly bearded bone skinny stoners hanging in the south georgia sun
but not steve the wild trombone man
he’s wearing white tennis shorts with pockets and an eye zod shirt he’s got that gee cue blond hair combed to the side the only clue that he’s one of the gang is the fucked up grin that sort of cocks to one side and the eyes that sparkle purple an effect due perhaps to some magical blend of his baby blues and the bright ganja glowing maze of red vessels in the sea of white eyeball
steve the wild trombone man he says with a cocky wave of his gooseneck bud he says not knowing what the rest know now not knowing then that he’d find himself in the not too distant future employed by georgia power as a so called nuclear safety check bio technician wandering around the huge expanse of the vidalia nuclear plant on the night shift dragging thirty gallon garbage bags filled with nitrous stopping on a regular basis to medicate himself against the future holocaust three mile island fresh on his mind tis no wonder why those onions are so freakishly sweet
goddamn each one of them what they would give for a whippet right now
steve the wild trombone man he says standing at the edges he is the voice of practical wisdom he is the voice of the world to come he is the voice of a timid jimmy carter lusting in his heart not yet in his hand he says
i’m in
ron johnson hell he's already signed up he's easy and jimmy the mad bonger a couple of years older than the rest matriculating down at georgia southern studying criminal justice a mad man who left his rocker later down the life road fell into the ditch of time lost to most of the gang jimmy the mad bonger he sits cross legged on the rock a wide brimmed leather hippie cowboy hat perched atop his raggedy noggin long black frizzy hair flying everywhere whenever he walks into a room he brings his own ecosystem gurgle gurgle bubblicious he exhales a plume of smoke read by the seminoles sitting around their own spirit rock the next county over
dot dot thumpa thumpa scratch the clouds kiss the sky do the hustle
the bee gees are god’s joke on them all they opened the world up to having sex with little boys transvestites and skinny old men in bus depots goddamn opium is so much better than heroin don’t you think
whatever happened to piss and vinegar
whatever happened to love and chastity
long hair is all about getting laid
ron johnson hell he's already signed up he's so easy the mad bonger he points at steve's cuda he says yo steve oh you driving he grins deep from within baby faced cheeks and sun bleached peach fuzz whiskers he says yeah man i'm driving i’ll drive us straight to hell it’s got to be better than this place let’s go just tell me
where we headed
ron johnson he says he says hey i got a county map three nebutols and a six pack
jimmy the mad bonger he says i got ten joints rolled thirty seven dollars and my old man’s gas card
the seminoles hell they just got a raw deal
a loud piercing rebel yell scream breaks through the planning exercise we look up some white boy soars through the air ay bee sea wild world of sports joy of victory agony of defeat cliffs of acapulco beautiful swan dive from the sun bleached water logged wooden perch eighty feet up the tree a splish a splash bubbles ripples three days later he emerges from the deep sitteth at the right hand of god almighty father son holy fucking ghost
one stoner on the other side of the springs he stands on a rock and claps yells attaboy jeff-ro
three people in black rubber suits emerge from a ford econoline van sporting indiana license plates northern sophisticate thrill seekers carrying heavy tanks and flippers making their way down the path to the water they are on their own they seek to dive deep into the springs explore the secret of the caves maybe fuck a manatee odds are they will stir up some watery dusty silt get confused lost forget which way is up down in out
another dead tourist
and ron johnson and jimmy the mad bonger and steve oh they could give a shit everyone else around there they could give a shit what’s a dead yankee to them they get angry when the locals make fun of them the way they talk their aversion to grits their lack of understanding of basic manners they act superior and offended when the boys do a rising shotgun on the flat rocks reaching out cantilevered out over the water squatting down head between their knees hyperventilating rushing their breath in out in out in out standing up rising as one or the other inhales a stream of reefer smoke being shotgunned from an inversely mouthed joint yet another homoerotic stoner’s dream come true they get pissed when they do their rising shotguns nearly pass out fall into the icy spring water the cold rush of stoned to straight as vicious as straight to stoned fall splash flailing in the water where they seek solace and peace and the thrill of exploration
hey cave diving is dangerous they want the boys to know
thing is they fucking know it’s asshole danger idiot danger down in them caves that’s why they don’t do it stupid fucking yankees the boys they emerge from the water shake their soaking rat’s nest of hair like the dogs they are spraying water all over the store bought yankee cave maps and dive books the boys take deep breaths play gator swim deep follow the rubber suiters part of the way down dropping underwater trou mooning their pioneer facades with ass and attitude an afternoon fight would only break the monotony
fuck dude don't you know preppy george be on ludes
the afternoon fades
the road trip fades with it
red haired weather comes stumbling down the path a mostly empty bottle of jack daniels in his hand the top long since lost he’s mumbling something swinging his free fist at the air mumbling i ain’t studdin’ you motherfucking faggot yankee bastards i’ll fuck your sister and mother and great aunt louise if i goddamn feel like it he perks up when he sees us his grimace turning to grin hey cuz big ton he done left me drove off with some strange blonde chick who wanted to fuck hey cuz how about a ride home his red curly mullet falling down on his tanned shoulders he is a green eyed scotch irish god with a tobacco picking tan
he stops spreads his arms wide looks up to the sky and howls
goddamn i’m drunk
all he wants is to get in a fight so he can sober up before going back into the fields tomorrow ain’t nothing worse than being sloshed sifting through sand for bottom leaf snakes and spiders sliding through the weeds while the bastard sun sucks what little life the bottle didn’t take
nothing worse than the realization that this is as good as it gets summer sundays sure fuck the mondays some of them have escape plans ron johnson he's going to college in the fall off to atlanta little does he know he don't want to come back wild trombone mad bonger preppie george they're all going to college red haired weather he can barely read recognizes his whiskey bottle by the color and shape
road trip forgotten ron nods jimmy nods steve oh he nods to ron johnson says
hey man you drive ron johnson he says
yeah
steve oh he grins gives a thumbs up turning into a peace sign stumbles backwards as he reaches into his pocket pulling out the keys tosses them over to ron johnson as he spins clumsy ballerina tip toes tripping on kudzu while unzipping catches his balance briefly on a young sapling stripping it of its needles fails falls and rolls onto his back as he pulls his cock free
momentarily confused
he normally takes his piss standing up turns his head to look up at ron jimmy red looking down grins says
yeah ron you drive
they pull him up holding him steady so he can properly piss
they finish the beer they split and pop the nebutols anyway they fire up a couple of the joints they pile into the steve's car and let red hair weather sit up front steve oh and jimmy they crawl into the back behind the bucket seats the naugahyde sticking to sweaty thighs allman brothers in the eight track they take back road west toward jesup to avoid the state troopers setting speed traps the roads curve along the river valleys and swampy bogs
the back end slides from beneath them ron johnson turns the wheels into the slide each time wiggle wiggle windows open early evening air pouring through a hot cold furnace red hair weather has one hand on the dash holding steady the three eighteen four barrel bursting with madness pine trees appear as dusky ghosts through the front windshield in the rear view mirror
a lone hawk glides over a fallow field
duane and dickie slide their guitars greg ties himself to a whipping post they're all tied to this fucking whipping post sometimes they just feel like they’re tied to a whipping post
goddamn
the pine trees line up on either side of the road where they're supposed to be all in rows and columns on either side of the car skinny pcp-smoking prisoners awaiting execution rusty dead cars and dead car parts litter the ditches regularly spaced randomly applied three dimensional tattoos permanently staining the landscape the body of some drunken carny strewn across the linoleum floor of the doublewide it’s recognizable as nature but something just don’t look right
red hair weather he bolts upright fist to mouth at first biting the knuckle next his hand spreading across the gaping hole gasping for breath breathing faster and faster no one really notices he whispering dude pull over he yelling dude pull over he grabbing ron johnson's arm he screaming dude pull over no one hearing him until it’s too late he’s leaning out the window ron johnson is doing ninety miles an hour down a rough tar and gravel road
big red he spews vomit
out the window into the south georgia early evening summer setting sun glowing red over the swamp spews chunky jack daniels potato chip and slim jim vomit out the window it pours out his mouth images of astronauts in space weightless pouring of tang from those cool space age pouches pours out of his mouth out into the evening back in through the rear window splatters across the naugahyde splatters onto the passed out drunken sleeping mugs of steve oh and jimmy the mad bonger
chunky monkeys
big red weather falls into his seat matted hair back against the cushioned head rest he looks at ron johnson he grins he says wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he says
goddamn i feel better
he leans over look back between the seats at his two victims mutters whoa sorry cuz falls back into his seat looks at steve one more time hits the last of the jack bottle throws it out the window at a road sign declaring the road county maintained they're going too fast to hear the crash of glass bottle on rusty tin pops a pepsi cola chugs it half way down looks at ron again he says pushing in the lighter waiting waiting waiting pop open up the box of cigs fires up a marlboro red drags deeply exhales he says
goddamn i feel better
ron glances in his rear view mirror steve oh jimmy the mad bonger they sleep peacefully a few chunks sprinkled throughout their shagginess a little splatter on bare skin the wind blows the stench of vomit on out behind them ron johnson he grins takes red's cigarette and nods yeah he says wiping the filter of whatever shit is on his lips he says
gazing out the window the remaining stench of vomit mixing with the wafts of the paper mill and trees spitting pine sol ron johnson he says
yeah i feel good too
down by the river summer afternoon
Monday, February 21, 2011
Jesup, Part the Fifth (an expansion)
and ron he stands next to on the steps below his momma she lightly touches his shoulder ron he nods he slides his hands into his pockets squeezes himself between stiffened arms and extended double jointed elbows and shivers
a nervous shiver and a shake
goosebumps and a brittle grin
she steps down takes his arm she looks up at him while he looks out across the courthouse lawn across the street the screen door to luretta's diner banging open and shut open and shut as a couple of guys in stained coveralls wander out
big quart size styrofoam cups with lids and straws in one hand white paper bags crumpled up hanging from the other
they step up and into a big international harvester truck weighed down with ricks of freshly cut pine logs piled on high syrupy raw turpentine drippings and sap oozing from the severed and frayed edges an engine fires sputters belches roars the truck jumps and bucks down the road out of town dipping down plopping down into and then bouncing up out of the big pothole on the side of the road on the end of the street and they make the turn with the logs swaying squeaking squawking with the ricks
ron johnson and his mom they watch them head of out town and before the truck can disappear around the corner before the belching of the indigested engine fades into the day they see the fuzzy grizzled face of the driver leaning over the steering wheel one hand holding his cup and wheel the other hand ron he guesses he assumes to be gripping the stick shift his head bouncing on the straw like some cheap valium pumped peachtree street whore going down on a pencil dicked geek from georgia tech
ron and his momma they watch them head out of town the burps of smoke squirting out of the tail pipe
gazing after the truck gazing up into the sky gazing down at their feet ron's old brogans his mom's carolina blue espadrilles her soft pink toenails exposed
gazing pretty much at anything except each other
gazing within the wait waiting within the gaze trying to see through from here to there looking backwards
a nervous shiver and a shake
goosebumps and a brittle grin
she steps down takes his arm she looks up at him while he looks out across the courthouse lawn across the street the screen door to luretta's diner banging open and shut open and shut as a couple of guys in stained coveralls wander out
big quart size styrofoam cups with lids and straws in one hand white paper bags crumpled up hanging from the other
they step up and into a big international harvester truck weighed down with ricks of freshly cut pine logs piled on high syrupy raw turpentine drippings and sap oozing from the severed and frayed edges an engine fires sputters belches roars the truck jumps and bucks down the road out of town dipping down plopping down into and then bouncing up out of the big pothole on the side of the road on the end of the street and they make the turn with the logs swaying squeaking squawking with the ricks
ron johnson and his mom they watch them head of out town and before the truck can disappear around the corner before the belching of the indigested engine fades into the day they see the fuzzy grizzled face of the driver leaning over the steering wheel one hand holding his cup and wheel the other hand ron he guesses he assumes to be gripping the stick shift his head bouncing on the straw like some cheap valium pumped peachtree street whore going down on a pencil dicked geek from georgia tech
ron and his momma they watch them head out of town the burps of smoke squirting out of the tail pipe
gazing after the truck gazing up into the sky gazing down at their feet ron's old brogans his mom's carolina blue espadrilles her soft pink toenails exposed
gazing pretty much at anything except each other
gazing within the wait waiting within the gaze trying to see through from here to there looking backwards
Jesup, Part the Fourth (a re-write)
ron johnson who just this last year walked into the dorm one night
he and his friend hoss big old hoss
the pupils of their eyes wide open and bouncing glimmering flickering oh so slightly in the overhead incandescence
walked into the dorm up the stairs to find chrono kevin eddie sitting idly in their room an album cover sitting on the bed double album unfolded a number of seeds sitting in the crack of the fold some loose shake and tight dry seeded bud decorating peter frampton's blondish tresses casting him further into some sort of three dimensional jesus wearing the crown of thorns
chrono bong in hand he said looking up he said click click clicking his bic he said hey click click clicking his bic he said taking a moment to gurgle up some smoky salvation he said
hey want to play a little twenty one we're about to put on a little lou
ron and hoss they smiled they grinned twenty one being the number of minutes a certain lou reed song would steal from the clock start to finish twenty one being the number of bong hits a participant was expected to complete to execute before that last audible downbeat of said lou reed song
ron and hoss they smiled they grinned they answered with a deafening nervous silence looking from chrono to kevin to eddie glancing and grinning at them at each other
they stood in the doorway shivering two days of freshman growth on their faces faded black swashes of grease or ash or dirt streaking cheek throat hands clothes kevin said what the fuck happened to you where the fuck you been they shuffled they rubbed their hands together on their pants into their pockets then together again ron he said
wiping a sleeve across beneath his nose sniffling back a phlegmy run for the border
he said
we hopped a train
eyes wide eyebrows raised lighter poised above the bowl
ron and hoss they said hoss he said so don't you know we were walking back from dinner just having scarfed down a couple of dagwoods feeling good feeling nice and full and happy lighting up a jay when some sort of premonition came over us like we had been thinking about it the whole time like we were cassidy and kerouac with an ethereal plan with a command from elijah
ron he said yeah there we were all soaking in this evening love when here comes this fucking freight train
the train slowing down as it rounded the bend coming onto campus down near the old depot this old rust colored box car just kind of cried out to us to me and hoss with its big yellow letters declaring
goldkist
might as well have been the yellow neon out front of the plaza theater tempered by a bottle of codeine or a handful of disco biscuits
hoss he said looking at ron like whoa where did that come from hoss he said its big sliding door already open like an invitation to some sweet sixteen spread her legs party we me and ron we thought we'd just jump on go a couple of miles down the track then hop off catch the next one coming back toward campus maybe a couple of hours next thing we know we're fucking rushing through the west fucking georgia countryside cold air streaming through the slats the smell of ratshit catshit hoboshit gagging and choking us as we traveled through the night the train not stopping until we were somewhere the fuck well into alabama
and hoss he said nodding at chrono for a cigarette chrono tapping out a marlboro tossing it over with a lighter hoss he said lighting the cig inhaling he said
yeah and ain't neither one of us too comfortable that far down in alabama
got so cold in that fucking train we hugged each other grabbed hold to each other like two midtown fags
ron he said now returning the what the fuck glance back at hoss ron johnson he said yeah fucking cold he said if i had had a knife i would have slit him open and crawled inside i would have got all call of the wild with his big ol' loving self
ron he said and the goddamn train so fucking loud rambling down through those woods and fields we screamed at the top of our lungs couldn't hear a thing couldn't hear ourselves think just the clackety clack and squealing of metal on metal the whistling of the wind
for hours and hours forever it seemed
hoss he nodded hoss he said fuck we stumbled out into that goddamn next day frosty dawn when that fucking shit stained slave ship finally slowed to a squealing crawl smack dab in the middle of a bunch of tracks all coming together in the dull morning light we had no idea where we were trying to figure out from whence we came trying to figure out which track led back to atlanta
the only hint that we were in alabama really the only clue was this glimpse of an empty bama state patrol car parked fifty yards away over by some depot looking shack
ron he said yeah some slim stream of smoke or steam sliding out of and up from a rusted pipe snaking out of kind of nailed to its ashen wooden side
some old black man wearing two sunday coats a brown felt bowler and boots with no strings came out between two trains popped out like hamlet's fucking daddy of a ghost nearly pissed my pants scared the shit out of me but old hoss he asked him he said ha he was we was so fucking cold he had his hands tucked deep into his pockets his shoulders all hunched up around his ears he said excuse me he said hey can you tell us which train goes back to atlanta
the room burst into laughter stoned giggles bursting into guffaws hoss he said what the fuck else was i gonna ask he didn't seem to be in a small talk mood
ron he laughed he pointed at hoss ron he said old hoss he looked at that old black man old hoss he said hey
which way is home
hoss he blushed turned red shrugged the room it shrugged its agreement hoss he said well this old black man
he stopped he looked around he looked at us two pitiful souls standing helpless there in front of him he looked at the direction from where we had just walked he rubbed his chin in that well let me just take out my trig book i'm sure
the answer is right there
in front of me
but he didn't say a word he thought maybe a full-count minute he shrugged he started walking again
me and ron we're like what the fuck but then the old black man
he stopped he pointed
at the train we'd just departed then he walked on his way never having said a word we me and ron scrambled back into our goldkist cruise liner and hunkered down
ron he said with a little bit of after shiver he said
that was yesterday we just got back
chrono he shrugged he flicked his bic he fellated the bong he looked up he said his words flowing into and out of a cloud of ganjaesque concern he said
whoa well welcome home glad you didn't get raped i mean i hear that there's all sorts of queer hobo rapists riding the trains
ron he said where the fuck did you hear that
chrono he shrugged he said i hear things don't you know
ron and hoss they each took a turn on the bong before wandering out of the room and down the hallway the stench of rodent feces hobo piss dinty moore lingering behind perhaps permanently on chrono's comforter on the faux hippie tapestry that hung in the doorway
the taint meandered behind them as they turned the corner past the bathrooms one guy walking out all freshly scrubbed and nattily if not preppily adorned in his ess ay ee monogrammed terry cloth robe scrunching his nose turning pale saying what horse you been fucking
they ron and hoss they ignored him they walked away from prep boy he in the opposite direction walking upstream into yesterday's adventure its stain neutralizing the hai karate
ron he looked over at hoss he said so hoss man we had a big idea we just couldn't figure out how to get there hoss he said what do you mean man we made it there and back ain't too many can say that
don't you fucking know
ron he paused and then he went on into his room
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
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
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