Pappy busts through the door, hollerin' "Howya'lldoin'?"....
.. ..
The fringe on his leather vest trails him to the front counter. He locks eyes with me and clasps my hand in his. His fingers are rough.....
.. ..
"It's goodta seeya gurl."....
.. ..
I see that a pink Bic Daisy razor, clogged with grey stubble is about to fall from the pocket of his pearl-snap shirt. I squeeze his hands and say, "it's good to see you too Pappy. We've been worried about you. We wanted to go out to your place, but we were afraid you'd shoot us."....
.. ..
"Been upta Tyler, stayin' with ma daughter, closeta the VA hospital. I tole that doctor 'you tell me why I ain't dead gawd-damnit!' He couldn't tell me, so I left that gawd-damn town. I hate that Tyler. I come home, back to the woods, where I belong."....
.. ..
“I hate Tyler too Pappy. It's good to see ya. Cheryl is sure gonna be sorry she missed ya."....
.. ..
"I'm gonna sit down over yonder, drink a cuppa coffee."....
.. ..
Tom stands up from the bullshittin' table and pours Pappy a cup. ....
.. ..
“Sit down old man I'll get yer coffee."....
.. ..
"Thankya son." Pappy lowers himself into the chair with a grunt.....
.. ..
“Tell me whatya been up to Pappy. We ain't seen yer ass in six months."....
.. ..
"I been upta that gawd-damn Tyler, stayin' with ma daughter. I'm home now. Them gawd-damn VA doctors ain't worth a shit.” ....
.. ..
He tucks a wad of tobacco into his lower lip and spits into an empty styrofoam cup. Juice escapes the wrinkled corners of his mouth and he wipes it from his scruffy chin with the back of his hand, wipes his hand on his spit-stained jeans.....
.. ..
"Well," Tom asks, "is your son still robbin' ya blind, or did the Pen straighten him out?"....
.. ..
"Aw hell naw. He stole everything I got. Him an' that whore of his, took it all. I left 'em there so's they could take care of his mama. Little bastard. I done called the law. They gonna come ta call this afternoon."....
.. ..
"Fuck that," Tom says, "shoot that little dope-fiend sonuvabitch."....
.. ..
"I done kilt one man and buried him up on my place. One more cain't hurt. I'm ninety, what the hell they gonna do ta me?"....
.. ..
"That is true old man." Tom's belly shakes with laughter.....
.. ..
Pappy gets up and wobbles his way to the door. "It was good seein' ya'll. Gal, you take care a yerself. Tell Cheryl I said hello. I got ta take care of some bidness."....
.. ..
"I'll tell her Pappy. You be careful."....
.. ..
Pappy leaves, backs his car into the street without looking. A Budget Rental truck has to swerve to avoid him. They honk their horn, and Pappy shakes his fist at the driver, throws his head back and howls.
Showing posts with label our highbrow hick coalition entries. Show all posts
Showing posts with label our highbrow hick coalition entries. Show all posts
Sunday, January 10, 2010
raw ass.
anyways,
there was this fellar there at
the pallet plant name of
royce.
we called him raw-ass
‘cause it was funny and he
didn’t like it.
one day raw-ass come in
all skittish with a big ol’
shiny black eye
and a gash on his cheek,
walkin’ quick-like past
the coffee and time clock
to the line, like he was
all a sudden a hard hand
or sumpin.
somebody hollered
‘hay raw-ass! what happened
to yor eye? that goat
finally git tarred a yor
gropin’ ass?’
raw-ass turned red-
‘HAY! What goes on
between me
my wife
and our stovewood
ain’t. nonaya’lls.
damn. bidness!’
-hipbilly
there was this fellar there at
the pallet plant name of
royce.
we called him raw-ass
‘cause it was funny and he
didn’t like it.
one day raw-ass come in
all skittish with a big ol’
shiny black eye
and a gash on his cheek,
walkin’ quick-like past
the coffee and time clock
to the line, like he was
all a sudden a hard hand
or sumpin.
somebody hollered
‘hay raw-ass! what happened
to yor eye? that goat
finally git tarred a yor
gropin’ ass?’
raw-ass turned red-
‘HAY! What goes on
between me
my wife
and our stovewood
ain’t. nonaya’lls.
damn. bidness!’
-hipbilly
fuck all this shit, we're movin' forward ***aka*** change is only one square away".
i feel fairly certain
(& what a big ol' certainty it is)
that if i had me some of that
word of the day
toilet paper,
at some point or another
i would have the fortune
of wiping my ass
with the word
renaissance
how wonderful do you
think it would be to
replace that roll of charmin
with a botticelli fuckin' masterpiece?
what could possibly
remove all traces
of shit from yr ass any better
than a few pgs from
davinci's journal?
(sears catalog ain't got fuck all to do with davinci's shit eatin' genius)
i imagine
that the nose from
a decapitated donatello statue
would get every
nook & cranny
that you might need
nooked & crannied
ain't nothin' like
wipin' yr ass
& bein' reborn.
(& what a big ol' certainty it is)
that if i had me some of that
word of the day
toilet paper,
at some point or another
i would have the fortune
of wiping my ass
with the word
renaissance
how wonderful do you
think it would be to
replace that roll of charmin
with a botticelli fuckin' masterpiece?
what could possibly
remove all traces
of shit from yr ass any better
than a few pgs from
davinci's journal?
(sears catalog ain't got fuck all to do with davinci's shit eatin' genius)
i imagine
that the nose from
a decapitated donatello statue
would get every
nook & cranny
that you might need
nooked & crannied
ain't nothin' like
wipin' yr ass
& bein' reborn.
work, bitch. work.
i lost my focus
of where i wanted to be
so i quit my job.
***
a "freak-out" ocurred
more of a "revelation"
if you want the truth.
***
"i'm not a machine"
as done by the band black flag
played thru my headphones.
***
***
walked out the side door
without sayin' one word to
one fuckin' person.
***
i feel much better
with this heavy fuckin' dread
lifted offa me.
***
every fuckin' day
i would obsessively do
the most mundane tasks.
***
***
the folks that work there
are so fuckin' retarded
it makes my brain bleed.
***
used all my sick days
& all my vacation days
i made sure of that.
***
changes are comin'
ones i think are much needed
LONG LIVE FAKE DADA.
***
of where i wanted to be
so i quit my job.
***
a "freak-out" ocurred
more of a "revelation"
if you want the truth.
***
"i'm not a machine"
as done by the band black flag
played thru my headphones.
***
***
walked out the side door
without sayin' one word to
one fuckin' person.
***
i feel much better
with this heavy fuckin' dread
lifted offa me.
***
every fuckin' day
i would obsessively do
the most mundane tasks.
***
***
the folks that work there
are so fuckin' retarded
it makes my brain bleed.
***
used all my sick days
& all my vacation days
i made sure of that.
***
changes are comin'
ones i think are much needed
LONG LIVE FAKE DADA.
***
i wish i could remember her name, but i cain't....but it might've been winnie. (as in the pooh)
*****************
at one point in time
she was a
beautiful sales girl
over at the perfume counter
at some dept. store
while simultaneously
flippin' burgers
over at cafe section
of the store
when i met her
she was a bitter old hag
who on occasion
shit in her pants
while workin' the register
at eckerd's drug store.
*****************
at one point in time
she was a
beautiful sales girl
over at the perfume counter
at some dept. store
while simultaneously
flippin' burgers
over at cafe section
of the store
when i met her
she was a bitter old hag
who on occasion
shit in her pants
while workin' the register
at eckerd's drug store.
*****************
who we is, part 12
“Gobbline* me, Peewee! Ever time I letye go down to dat camp ye come back wif a fresh stock o’ the nits!”
Mizz Moorehead had her youngest, Penny, sprawled across the cupped floorboards of their tiny living room, Penny’s head in an old, chipped porcelain washbowl full of steamy water and lye suds.
“MAMA, IT HURTS!”
“Hesh, chile. It’s yer own doin’s.”
Mizz Moorehead shifted Peewee’s head for a new angle, then got back to work. She was raking Peewee’s hair and scalp with an ancient ivory haircomb; a small, fine-toothed girl’s comb with strange scrimshaw lettering on the handle. I figured it was old as Cap’n Ahab.
“MAMA!! OWWWW!!”
Mizz Moorehead’s side of the family were Gypsies, mostly based out of a trailer camp just outside Texarkana. Every summer the Mooreheads would pack one or two of the youngest kids off there for a month or two for a visit. And every fall they would come home with head lice or bedbugs or somesuch critter. I’m not saying that the Gypsies were particularly dirty peoples – I’d met Uncle Hambone and family many times and they acted and lived no different than most rural Arkansas folk – I’m just saying that it was a regular event.
“By God, Virginia, I ain’t seen ye bent over on the floor like that fer many a moon.” Mr. Moorehead generally sat around on a cane chair by the screen door, chain-huffing Pall Mall filterless, spouting jewels like...
“Go ‘head and break the goddam thing, Ernest. It’s finally paid fer.”
and
“What ye bringin me fer Christmas, Santy Claus? You sumbitch.”
...when he wasn’t working a week or three at the pallet mill and Mizz Moorehead was out of the nuthouse down to Benton.
‘Shesh, Leeroy!” Mizz Moorehead was never amused at him. “You won’t do nothin’ about this OR that. Yer sucker’s good but yer pecker’s dry!”
“Heeheeee look at the far in her eyes, boys!” Mr. Moorehead was always amused at her.
“MAMAAAA!!”
“Hesh.”
Mizz Tipton was on one of her rants, directly from textbook. I was always in trouble in Mizz Tipton’s class; mainly because I didn’t mind arguing with her over ‘Civics’. I reckon my freak hair and thuginess might have had something to do with it, too.
“So, you see, the reconstruction period, although harsh, was directly manifested by Southern insurgencies aimed at Federal.....”
I was already gearing up to interrupt her, but the school nurse beat me to it. The classroom door opened. Nobody EVER opened Mizz Tipton’s door in mid-rant.
“....protection forces.....umm...” Mizz Tipton turned her head to the door and glared. “...yes, Mizz Jordan?”
Mizz Jordan almost curtsied at the door. I always thought she looked cute in her little white outfit. She blushed at all the quiet eyes turned to her.
“I’m sorry, Mizz Tipton, ma’am. May I have a word with you outside?”
Mizz Tipton took a deep breath. She turned her glare to us.
“Why...yes, Mizz Jordan.” Her whole tone said: ‘This better be good, Nurse Rude. And you little miscreants best behave. Begin reading chapter.....’
“Students, begin reading chapter 16. I will continue in a moment.”
When she came back in, crossed her arms, then pointed at me, it wasn’t a new experience.
“See here,” Mizz Jordan said. She plucked a hair from the back of my head and held it up to her desk light. “See the little clusters of white clinging there, next to the root?”
“Yes’m.”
“Those are head lice eggs. They’re called nits.”
“Oh.”
She reached into her desk drawer. “This is medicated shampoo. You and all your family must use it for a week. I’m writing my telephone number on the label. Please have your mother call me. We have to clean your entire house.”
“Yes’m.”
“You and your brothers and sister will be out of school until you all check clean of lice. Do you understand?”
***Hell YEAH!!!!!***
“Yes’m. Mizz Jordan?”
“Yes, Steve?”
“What caused you to think I had head lice?”
She paused and looked away from me.
“Honestly, because rumor about town has it that you have been associating with the Moorehead family. They have all been removed from the school system until further notice.”
“Oh.” I reached for the shampoo. “Can I go now?”
“Yes.........Steve?”
I stopped at the door.
“Yes’m?”
“It’s not a shame to get lice. It’s only a shame to keep them.”
I nodded and walked out.
“Naw,” I thought. “It’s a shame nobody writes funny stories about this shit.”
I tucked the shampoo into the back pocket of my jeans and pushed the long stainless steel bar on the main entrance door. A quick puff of new September air touched my face. I could smell the first of the fall pecan leaves burning in somebody’s yard as I walked down to Main Street. I stopped and looked both ways. I grinned. I turned toward the Moorehead’s place.
*God blind.
Mizz Moorehead had her youngest, Penny, sprawled across the cupped floorboards of their tiny living room, Penny’s head in an old, chipped porcelain washbowl full of steamy water and lye suds.
“MAMA, IT HURTS!”
“Hesh, chile. It’s yer own doin’s.”
Mizz Moorehead shifted Peewee’s head for a new angle, then got back to work. She was raking Peewee’s hair and scalp with an ancient ivory haircomb; a small, fine-toothed girl’s comb with strange scrimshaw lettering on the handle. I figured it was old as Cap’n Ahab.
“MAMA!! OWWWW!!”
Mizz Moorehead’s side of the family were Gypsies, mostly based out of a trailer camp just outside Texarkana. Every summer the Mooreheads would pack one or two of the youngest kids off there for a month or two for a visit. And every fall they would come home with head lice or bedbugs or somesuch critter. I’m not saying that the Gypsies were particularly dirty peoples – I’d met Uncle Hambone and family many times and they acted and lived no different than most rural Arkansas folk – I’m just saying that it was a regular event.
“By God, Virginia, I ain’t seen ye bent over on the floor like that fer many a moon.” Mr. Moorehead generally sat around on a cane chair by the screen door, chain-huffing Pall Mall filterless, spouting jewels like...
“Go ‘head and break the goddam thing, Ernest. It’s finally paid fer.”
and
“What ye bringin me fer Christmas, Santy Claus? You sumbitch.”
...when he wasn’t working a week or three at the pallet mill and Mizz Moorehead was out of the nuthouse down to Benton.
‘Shesh, Leeroy!” Mizz Moorehead was never amused at him. “You won’t do nothin’ about this OR that. Yer sucker’s good but yer pecker’s dry!”
“Heeheeee look at the far in her eyes, boys!” Mr. Moorehead was always amused at her.
“MAMAAAA!!”
“Hesh.”
Mizz Tipton was on one of her rants, directly from textbook. I was always in trouble in Mizz Tipton’s class; mainly because I didn’t mind arguing with her over ‘Civics’. I reckon my freak hair and thuginess might have had something to do with it, too.
“So, you see, the reconstruction period, although harsh, was directly manifested by Southern insurgencies aimed at Federal.....”
I was already gearing up to interrupt her, but the school nurse beat me to it. The classroom door opened. Nobody EVER opened Mizz Tipton’s door in mid-rant.
“....protection forces.....umm...” Mizz Tipton turned her head to the door and glared. “...yes, Mizz Jordan?”
Mizz Jordan almost curtsied at the door. I always thought she looked cute in her little white outfit. She blushed at all the quiet eyes turned to her.
“I’m sorry, Mizz Tipton, ma’am. May I have a word with you outside?”
Mizz Tipton took a deep breath. She turned her glare to us.
“Why...yes, Mizz Jordan.” Her whole tone said: ‘This better be good, Nurse Rude. And you little miscreants best behave. Begin reading chapter.....’
“Students, begin reading chapter 16. I will continue in a moment.”
When she came back in, crossed her arms, then pointed at me, it wasn’t a new experience.
“See here,” Mizz Jordan said. She plucked a hair from the back of my head and held it up to her desk light. “See the little clusters of white clinging there, next to the root?”
“Yes’m.”
“Those are head lice eggs. They’re called nits.”
“Oh.”
She reached into her desk drawer. “This is medicated shampoo. You and all your family must use it for a week. I’m writing my telephone number on the label. Please have your mother call me. We have to clean your entire house.”
“Yes’m.”
“You and your brothers and sister will be out of school until you all check clean of lice. Do you understand?”
***Hell YEAH!!!!!***
“Yes’m. Mizz Jordan?”
“Yes, Steve?”
“What caused you to think I had head lice?”
She paused and looked away from me.
“Honestly, because rumor about town has it that you have been associating with the Moorehead family. They have all been removed from the school system until further notice.”
“Oh.” I reached for the shampoo. “Can I go now?”
“Yes.........Steve?”
I stopped at the door.
“Yes’m?”
“It’s not a shame to get lice. It’s only a shame to keep them.”
I nodded and walked out.
“Naw,” I thought. “It’s a shame nobody writes funny stories about this shit.”
I tucked the shampoo into the back pocket of my jeans and pushed the long stainless steel bar on the main entrance door. A quick puff of new September air touched my face. I could smell the first of the fall pecan leaves burning in somebody’s yard as I walked down to Main Street. I stopped and looked both ways. I grinned. I turned toward the Moorehead’s place.
*God blind.
THE ROUGH LOOKIN' 40YR OLD WOMAN BEHIND THE COUNTER AT OUR LOCAL DAIRY QUEEN
i ain't never heard of
some 4yr old little girl
walkin' up to her mama & sayin'
"you know what mama?
when i grow up
i wanna change my name
to kitty, then i wanna
have my new name
tattooed in real shitty
cursive lettering
on the side of my neck."
but
maybe
this one did.
some 4yr old little girl
walkin' up to her mama & sayin'
"you know what mama?
when i grow up
i wanna change my name
to kitty, then i wanna
have my new name
tattooed in real shitty
cursive lettering
on the side of my neck."
but
maybe
this one did.
Wish I'd Known He Died, I Woulda Stood Up and Said
We are here today to say goodbye to our brother Thomas Diggs. Despite what the preacher mighta said, Thomas was not a good man, or a family man, but he was most certainly a drunk man. Didn't matter to Thomas if it was daybreak or quittin' time, Natural Light was a beverage to be appreciated at any hour. And fuck combin' your hair or puttin' on a clean shirt, weren't no cause for it since you were just gonna drop cigarettes on it later. I hate it that they put him in a suit and slicked his hair over. He looks goofy.
Hey! Ya'll 'member that time that old Thomas got so shit faced that Aunt Carolyn, cold-hearted bitch that she was, took his keys away from him and told him to bed down on the couch across from my mama? My sister said once Thomas laid down, they didn't get no sleep, cause he kep' hollerin', "Alene! Alene! Wake up! Are you my friend? If you're my friend, you'll wake up and let me make sweet love to ya. I just wanna be your friend." Mama told him to fuck hisself, but he did not give up, because Thomas Diggs was certainly a pathetic man.
Didn't matter though. We loved that dumb sloppy sumbitch, cause he was there that time we caught those police fuckin' on the hood of that police cruiser down in the gravel pits, and he threw empty beer cans at their flabby asses. And he was there when I turned sixteen to help me drink the two cases of beer he bought me as a present, and he helped me set that Christmas tree on fire and roll it down Hall Hill despite the fact that he was so drunk that he pissed his pants in the backseat of Bubba's T-Top Mustang, and he couldn't walk quite upright no more. And when Bubba shot that big ass raccoon and threw it in the back of his Jeep with me and Thomas without verifying the raccoon's untimely demise, Thomas beat it to death with a tire iron when it tried to get feisty with me. Then, he tucked that coon tail under his cap while we drank Wild Irish Rose around the campfire.
Them was good times. And Thomas Diggs was a bad motherfucker.
Rebel S. Nerd
Hey! Ya'll 'member that time that old Thomas got so shit faced that Aunt Carolyn, cold-hearted bitch that she was, took his keys away from him and told him to bed down on the couch across from my mama? My sister said once Thomas laid down, they didn't get no sleep, cause he kep' hollerin', "Alene! Alene! Wake up! Are you my friend? If you're my friend, you'll wake up and let me make sweet love to ya. I just wanna be your friend." Mama told him to fuck hisself, but he did not give up, because Thomas Diggs was certainly a pathetic man.
Didn't matter though. We loved that dumb sloppy sumbitch, cause he was there that time we caught those police fuckin' on the hood of that police cruiser down in the gravel pits, and he threw empty beer cans at their flabby asses. And he was there when I turned sixteen to help me drink the two cases of beer he bought me as a present, and he helped me set that Christmas tree on fire and roll it down Hall Hill despite the fact that he was so drunk that he pissed his pants in the backseat of Bubba's T-Top Mustang, and he couldn't walk quite upright no more. And when Bubba shot that big ass raccoon and threw it in the back of his Jeep with me and Thomas without verifying the raccoon's untimely demise, Thomas beat it to death with a tire iron when it tried to get feisty with me. Then, he tucked that coon tail under his cap while we drank Wild Irish Rose around the campfire.
Them was good times. And Thomas Diggs was a bad motherfucker.
Rebel S. Nerd
one day it was hot outside so i wrote this. - fake dada
no shirt
no pants
just me
& my boxer briefs
front door open
back door open
ceiling fan on high
& it still feels
like shit
each time i pick up
my glass of coke,
drop after drop
of condensation
falls onto my chest
& sometimes my belly
i decide
not to touch
one fuckin' drop
since that's probably
the coolest thing
that will happen
all fuckin' day.
no pants
just me
& my boxer briefs
front door open
back door open
ceiling fan on high
& it still feels
like shit
each time i pick up
my glass of coke,
drop after drop
of condensation
falls onto my chest
& sometimes my belly
i decide
not to touch
one fuckin' drop
since that's probably
the coolest thing
that will happen
all fuckin' day.
untitled nothin' by fake dada.
last night
johnny paycheck
put me to bed
visions of
honkey tonk angels
filled my dreams
stolen cars
drunk at bars
countrified gi-tars
baritoned sounds
of heartache
& despair
floated through
the air while
we slept.
johnny paycheck
put me to bed
visions of
honkey tonk angels
filled my dreams
stolen cars
drunk at bars
countrified gi-tars
baritoned sounds
of heartache
& despair
floated through
the air while
we slept.
by hippy steve.
They gots a town down thar by the Arkansas River near Conway called Toad Suck. No shit. A feller up there once invited me to a poker game, then went on to say that I maybe shouldnt show up fer it, cause I was liable to get stabbed cause they had damn good moonshine up in thar. I thanked him fer the invite, then went to the house.
I've recently learned that there's a town in Tejas called Toad Suck. I'm wonderin' if they have poker games thar.
I've recently learned that there's a town in Tejas called Toad Suck. I'm wonderin' if they have poker games thar.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Who we is....part whatever
I ain't talkin' "Haul the loaded bass boat down to the lake and smack the water with plastic baits until your arm's sore fishin". I'm talkin' kick back on the river bank and dip a worm or cricket or crawfish or minnow off the end of a cane pole fishin'.
Fishin', by Gawd.
Remmel Dam is the spillway between Lake Catherine and the continuing Quachita River. When they'd open that puppy up after spring rains the river side would be frothing with catfish and bluegill, alligator gar, smallmouth bass, everything. And that's about when grandma would look up and say:
"Yoo kids load up yer granpa's truck. We's goin' fishin'. Git now."
Six or eight cousins would thrash and bungle the poles and cricket traps and minnow buckets, grinning like shit-eatin' sheep. We're goin' to the river! Grandma would tear down the old highways in that old '63 Chevy, fishing gear and kids dangling out the back like something out of a Steinbeck novel. You just can't have good retarded fun like that these days.
It was always the same drill when we got there:
"Johnny, fetch them lawn chairs!"
"Jimbo, don't you dare spill that minner bucket!"
"Cathy, git my snuff out the glove box!"
"You kids watch out fer moccasins, hear!? Steve-bo, you watch out fer these kids!"
We were already doing all that, but she still had to bark out anyway.
"Wayne, go over thar in that mud bank and dig us some worms!"
Wayne was the sixth of grandma's ten children… my uncle. When he was an infant his brother Herman was rocking him in grandma's old rocker in front of the pot-bellied wood stove - I guess a little too vigorously – and dropped him headfirst onto it. Wayne's brain quit developing after about the age of 3. Herman always blamed himself, even though the doctors claimed they were 90% certain Wayne had been born that way. It was kinda fun having a twenty-five-year-old uncle behaving like he was three. We thought he was cool, other than the drooling every now and then.
So Wayne rambled off with an old coffee can to dig for worms, and the rest of us set to unraveling fishing line and bumping into each other. Grandma plopped down in her lawn chair about 20 yards downstream…we new better than to try to fish near her. The last one to get up in her fishing space found out that a cane pole can double as a damn good switch. And boy could that woman administer a switchin'.
Just a couple minutes later I heard thrashing around in the tall weeds behind us, by the mud bank Wayne had gone to. We all turned to see Wayne loping out of the weeds to grandma, blubbering, holding one hand to his chest and the coffee can in the other.
"Wayne, what in the world is wrong with you, boy?"
We all scampered over to see what was up. Grandma had Wayne's free hand in hers, looking it over. It was purple and swollen and covered with tiny holes. Wayne sniffed, "Mama, them worms bites."
I grabbed the coffee can. It was half full of baby moccasins.
Fishin', by Gawd.
Remmel Dam is the spillway between Lake Catherine and the continuing Quachita River. When they'd open that puppy up after spring rains the river side would be frothing with catfish and bluegill, alligator gar, smallmouth bass, everything. And that's about when grandma would look up and say:
"Yoo kids load up yer granpa's truck. We's goin' fishin'. Git now."
Six or eight cousins would thrash and bungle the poles and cricket traps and minnow buckets, grinning like shit-eatin' sheep. We're goin' to the river! Grandma would tear down the old highways in that old '63 Chevy, fishing gear and kids dangling out the back like something out of a Steinbeck novel. You just can't have good retarded fun like that these days.
It was always the same drill when we got there:
"Johnny, fetch them lawn chairs!"
"Jimbo, don't you dare spill that minner bucket!"
"Cathy, git my snuff out the glove box!"
"You kids watch out fer moccasins, hear!? Steve-bo, you watch out fer these kids!"
We were already doing all that, but she still had to bark out anyway.
"Wayne, go over thar in that mud bank and dig us some worms!"
Wayne was the sixth of grandma's ten children… my uncle. When he was an infant his brother Herman was rocking him in grandma's old rocker in front of the pot-bellied wood stove - I guess a little too vigorously – and dropped him headfirst onto it. Wayne's brain quit developing after about the age of 3. Herman always blamed himself, even though the doctors claimed they were 90% certain Wayne had been born that way. It was kinda fun having a twenty-five-year-old uncle behaving like he was three. We thought he was cool, other than the drooling every now and then.
So Wayne rambled off with an old coffee can to dig for worms, and the rest of us set to unraveling fishing line and bumping into each other. Grandma plopped down in her lawn chair about 20 yards downstream…we new better than to try to fish near her. The last one to get up in her fishing space found out that a cane pole can double as a damn good switch. And boy could that woman administer a switchin'.
Just a couple minutes later I heard thrashing around in the tall weeds behind us, by the mud bank Wayne had gone to. We all turned to see Wayne loping out of the weeds to grandma, blubbering, holding one hand to his chest and the coffee can in the other.
"Wayne, what in the world is wrong with you, boy?"
We all scampered over to see what was up. Grandma had Wayne's free hand in hers, looking it over. It was purple and swollen and covered with tiny holes. Wayne sniffed, "Mama, them worms bites."
I grabbed the coffee can. It was half full of baby moccasins.
FUCK A FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHT. *aka* a high school football game in 4 parts.
i hate football. the only reason we go to the games is because our daughter is in the marching band this yr. well, we attened last friday's game, the band played "goldfinger" & "live & let die", & it was great. i couldn't really tell you much about the football game though, except that we lost.
i can tell you that there were a shit-ton of folks in attendance. there were handfuls of children flutterin' around like mad. many of them seemed to be grossly unsupervised. there was one little boy in particular, who at times sat in front of us with a little girl. they both seemed to be 7 or 8 yrs old. that little boy was an active motherfucker. shit, they both vibrated around like a couple of comepletely freaked out geeks. the boy's grandpa was seated just on the other side of the walkway. he somewhat paid attention to his loud talkin', mountain dew swillin' grandson. at one point grandpa & grandson were sharin' one of them turkey legs that i so desparately wanted, & grandpa ripped off a small turkey bone then used it as a toothpick. fuckin' wow.
i've never understood folks who feel the need to scream & yell all kindsa obnoxious ugliness throughout an entire ballgame. we all have moments of moanin' & groanin', & maybe the occasion scream at a referee. but, who in the fuck yells "ILLEGAL MOVEMENT, ILLEGAL MOVEMENT, ILLEGAL MOVEMENT, ILLEGAL MOVEMENT, ILLEGAL MOVEMENT, ILLEGAL MOVEMENT, ILLEGAL MOVEMENT!!!"? the fuckin' guy next to us, that's who. he seemed to be in possession of some sort of football dictionary. every minute or so, this man would yell about some sort of infraction of the rules or some call by the referee that he considered to be possibly the worst thing to happen to mankind since hitle killed all them fuckin' jews. the other team, according to this violently loud man, was constantly offsides & facemasking. at one point he was yellin' at such & such for "UNSPORTSMANSHIP". somehow the refs seemed to always be ignorant to all the shit that this man was so helpfully pointing out. poor stupid refs.
there was a pretty big turnout for the game. i bet next weeks crowd will be way worse, for it is time for homecoming. good lord. the mere thought of a mum, makes me wanna beat the shit outta someone. maybe shovin' of them turkey legs,from the concession stand, into my face will help keep me at bay. also, i'm bringin' a book this time.
i can tell you that there were a shit-ton of folks in attendance. there were handfuls of children flutterin' around like mad. many of them seemed to be grossly unsupervised. there was one little boy in particular, who at times sat in front of us with a little girl. they both seemed to be 7 or 8 yrs old. that little boy was an active motherfucker. shit, they both vibrated around like a couple of comepletely freaked out geeks. the boy's grandpa was seated just on the other side of the walkway. he somewhat paid attention to his loud talkin', mountain dew swillin' grandson. at one point grandpa & grandson were sharin' one of them turkey legs that i so desparately wanted, & grandpa ripped off a small turkey bone then used it as a toothpick. fuckin' wow.
i've never understood folks who feel the need to scream & yell all kindsa obnoxious ugliness throughout an entire ballgame. we all have moments of moanin' & groanin', & maybe the occasion scream at a referee. but, who in the fuck yells "ILLEGAL MOVEMENT, ILLEGAL MOVEMENT, ILLEGAL MOVEMENT, ILLEGAL MOVEMENT, ILLEGAL MOVEMENT, ILLEGAL MOVEMENT, ILLEGAL MOVEMENT!!!"? the fuckin' guy next to us, that's who. he seemed to be in possession of some sort of football dictionary. every minute or so, this man would yell about some sort of infraction of the rules or some call by the referee that he considered to be possibly the worst thing to happen to mankind since hitle killed all them fuckin' jews. the other team, according to this violently loud man, was constantly offsides & facemasking. at one point he was yellin' at such & such for "UNSPORTSMANSHIP". somehow the refs seemed to always be ignorant to all the shit that this man was so helpfully pointing out. poor stupid refs.
there was a pretty big turnout for the game. i bet next weeks crowd will be way worse, for it is time for homecoming. good lord. the mere thought of a mum, makes me wanna beat the shit outta someone. maybe shovin' of them turkey legs,from the concession stand, into my face will help keep me at bay. also, i'm bringin' a book this time.
HIS NAME WAS JACK NICHOLS.
jack was a mentally retarded alcoholic. jack was my step great-greatgrandfather.
when i was a little kid, some of the older folk in my family were way too impressed with my ability to reset clocks for their electronics. i set alot of vcr clocks & helped program various bullshit electronics.
apparently jack remembered this.
i'm at home by myself & the phone rings. it's jack. it had been a few years since i had fidgeted with folks remote controls, but he wants to know if he can swing by while he's out doin' shit, & have me reset his watch. i unwillingly agreed to this. he shows up at my house about 15 minutes with his blinking watch & no instructions. he stands in my yard, i sit on my porch & mash buttons. five minutes later the watch is set. jack thanks me 4 or 5 times, puts his watch on, & says for me to hold for a second. he hobbles to his truck & returns shovin' 2 handfuls of change at me. i tell'em that ain't necessary. he insists, sayin' i could use it for coke & candy $$$. i took the 10 or so dollars in loose change, & jack left.
when i was a little kid, some of the older folk in my family were way too impressed with my ability to reset clocks for their electronics. i set alot of vcr clocks & helped program various bullshit electronics.
apparently jack remembered this.
i'm at home by myself & the phone rings. it's jack. it had been a few years since i had fidgeted with folks remote controls, but he wants to know if he can swing by while he's out doin' shit, & have me reset his watch. i unwillingly agreed to this. he shows up at my house about 15 minutes with his blinking watch & no instructions. he stands in my yard, i sit on my porch & mash buttons. five minutes later the watch is set. jack thanks me 4 or 5 times, puts his watch on, & says for me to hold for a second. he hobbles to his truck & returns shovin' 2 handfuls of change at me. i tell'em that ain't necessary. he insists, sayin' i could use it for coke & candy $$$. i took the 10 or so dollars in loose change, & jack left.
UNTITLED
the heroin problem is
so bad in dublin
some public restrooms
in high use areas
are illuminated with
blue lights
when I was younger
my grandma used
the green husks
of walnuts to make
a pulpy paste
that stained my hairless
underarms a tannish green
the reason being for the blue
lighting is that it makes it
harder for the intraveinous
user to locate a vein
she explained that the walnuts would
help me to have a more pleasant
smell when I became a man
i'm sure people still shoot up
in the blue light
because grandmas
87 and still lives under that
walnut tree
and that goddamn remedy
didn't do a thing for my odor
so bad in dublin
some public restrooms
in high use areas
are illuminated with
blue lights
when I was younger
my grandma used
the green husks
of walnuts to make
a pulpy paste
that stained my hairless
underarms a tannish green
the reason being for the blue
lighting is that it makes it
harder for the intraveinous
user to locate a vein
she explained that the walnuts would
help me to have a more pleasant
smell when I became a man
i'm sure people still shoot up
in the blue light
because grandmas
87 and still lives under that
walnut tree
and that goddamn remedy
didn't do a thing for my odor
three fishy things
mr ronnie agnew
***
red scottish bushy
beard wet with
busch beer foam
rolling blood
bait on brass
fish hooks
with black thread
on the white
rocks of
winganon bridge
singing about
the speckled channel
cat and content
with a blue ice
chest of tolerance
for being with me
*************************
There was this man
who had the tips of his
fingers disfigured on the
ends of them
they were strange balls
of scar tissue with the most
mishapen brown specs of
finger nail growth
They worked good for him
when handling his fishing pole
and he was more than
proficient at catching
catfish
below winganon bridge
one evening my dad
told me on our swivering
back road drive home
from the lake
to ramona that the man
had been tortued by means
of having bamboo splinters
shoved up under his fingernails
I figured that the war
was still going on for him
but now
battling those
spiny barbed fish
had taken the place of
the VC and their punji sticks
*************************
bait shop traffic
***
he has got one lung
but enough nightcrawlers
and minnows to keep the towns
poles baited three times over
on a hill across from the cemetery
seperated by only a deep valley
nevermind that the swarms of mosquitos have reportedly carried
small children as far away as
ochelata before discarding their
bloodless bodies
the talk is that the speckled
channel cat have never bitten better
*************************
***
red scottish bushy
beard wet with
busch beer foam
rolling blood
bait on brass
fish hooks
with black thread
on the white
rocks of
winganon bridge
singing about
the speckled channel
cat and content
with a blue ice
chest of tolerance
for being with me
*************************
There was this man
who had the tips of his
fingers disfigured on the
ends of them
they were strange balls
of scar tissue with the most
mishapen brown specs of
finger nail growth
They worked good for him
when handling his fishing pole
and he was more than
proficient at catching
catfish
below winganon bridge
one evening my dad
told me on our swivering
back road drive home
from the lake
to ramona that the man
had been tortued by means
of having bamboo splinters
shoved up under his fingernails
I figured that the war
was still going on for him
but now
battling those
spiny barbed fish
had taken the place of
the VC and their punji sticks
*************************
bait shop traffic
***
he has got one lung
but enough nightcrawlers
and minnows to keep the towns
poles baited three times over
on a hill across from the cemetery
seperated by only a deep valley
nevermind that the swarms of mosquitos have reportedly carried
small children as far away as
ochelata before discarding their
bloodless bodies
the talk is that the speckled
channel cat have never bitten better
*************************
untitled poem
cotton doesn't have a
last name
just a slick shiny black
scalp and always
a friendly greeting
he takes the orders from
the shop workers everynight
at 7:30 pm sharp
the people get in a line
and he jots down there
requests with a bic ball point pen
onto a tattered oily spiral notebook
He's developed a form of short hand for taking down the menu items
A Lebanese family has a bbq joint near pine and mingo where he picks up everyones meals
The meals come in small brown paper sacks with grease stains
complete with plastic silver wear
napkins and two packs of hunts ketchup
I once asked someone standing in line
why does cotton do this for everyone
they replied oh he gets his meal free for giving them the business
oh I said then began dog hunching the air with my tongue out moaning
fried bologna sandwich while trying to put my hands on their peckers to no avail
last name
just a slick shiny black
scalp and always
a friendly greeting
he takes the orders from
the shop workers everynight
at 7:30 pm sharp
the people get in a line
and he jots down there
requests with a bic ball point pen
onto a tattered oily spiral notebook
He's developed a form of short hand for taking down the menu items
A Lebanese family has a bbq joint near pine and mingo where he picks up everyones meals
The meals come in small brown paper sacks with grease stains
complete with plastic silver wear
napkins and two packs of hunts ketchup
I once asked someone standing in line
why does cotton do this for everyone
they replied oh he gets his meal free for giving them the business
oh I said then began dog hunching the air with my tongue out moaning
fried bologna sandwich while trying to put my hands on their peckers to no avail
the panther of skull hollow
The men meet
at the post office downtown
with coleman lanterns
dirty fingernails
bad breath
and rusty rifles
Their wives are always
sleeping with everyone
in town but them.
these women are shoving them
out the door telling them
to bring back that cat.
The party moves out east
of town in the back of an old
rickety pick up just as the
dark orange october sun is
swallowed up by the vastness of
osage county
The men dream of that cat as being
the trophy that would let them back into their wives intimacy
but
most men who live out east of town
would tell you that cat
doesn't even exist
at the post office downtown
with coleman lanterns
dirty fingernails
bad breath
and rusty rifles
Their wives are always
sleeping with everyone
in town but them.
these women are shoving them
out the door telling them
to bring back that cat.
The party moves out east
of town in the back of an old
rickety pick up just as the
dark orange october sun is
swallowed up by the vastness of
osage county
The men dream of that cat as being
the trophy that would let them back into their wives intimacy
but
most men who live out east of town
would tell you that cat
doesn't even exist
Who We Is, Part 2.13...
Now, down in rural Arkansas there's some strange things happened back in the day that don't seem so strange now. These days a choir boy gets fondled by a priest; that's world-wide news. Those days something like that would be community gossip, the family would hush it up best they could out of misplaced shame. The priest would go on, the boy would go on, whispers the only thing heard. The priest retired eventually - next priest. The boy took his lumps and sucked it up – became the next bank president or mysterious hunting accident. The community remained obliviously, gossipy, solid.
'Course, in rural Arkansas we didn't know what a priest or alter boy was. We were Baptists and Methodists and Church of Gods. But you get my point.
Ol' Bill was red-faced and old. Can't tell you how old…when you're 14 everybody looks old…but he had solid, short grey hair and a big ol' potbelly. He wore a straw cowboy hat and scuffy boots, drove an immaculate white '67 Fairlane that still had the new rubber smell to it. Bill liked to hang out at the Moore's with all us teen-age boys of a summer day, especially when Mizz Moore was in the mental hospital and Mr. Moore was at work at the pallet mill. Bill'd bring Old Milwaukee beer.
The Moores were dirt poor folk who were unfortunate enough for my dad's church to notice. That's right, "We'll bring you boxes of canned and dry goods by once a week, BUT… dress those children for church every Wednesday evening and twice on Sunday."
People got fed and fed up equally, but the price was getting on and off that beat up old bus with the 'Saving Souls One at a Time' banner on it.
Anyway, I got to know the Moore kids through Sunday school, and during summer vacation I started hanging out at their house during the day. It was cool…smokin', cussin', gettin' into mischief….everything I couldn't get away with at home. Paul, the eldest, was my hero. He was about 17. He looked like Elvis and could whup anybody around. Michael, my age, looked like Paul but was much quieter. Leeroy Jr. was crazy but had a good heart. Donna Faye was twelve but developing quick; she liked to drag me into a bedroom and play spin the bottle. And Earnest and PeeWee liked to kick me in the shins to see if I'd go off so Paul or Michael or Leeroy would kick my ass. Hanging out at the Moore's was fun…you never knew what you'd get into.
One summer day I walked up to the Moore's place and Ol' Bill was sitting on the couch. All the male kids were gathered around him, smoking and drinking Old Milwaukee; the girls weren't around for some reason. I opened the squeaky screen door and Paul said,
"Hey. Here's Steve. Git you a beer, son. Bill here brought a bunch. Thisheer's Bill."
Bill looked me up and down and held out his hand. I shook it, didn't say anything. Bill grinned. Something felt bad wrong about this dude.
I ran into Paul and Michael somewhere, some weeks later.
"You remember that old motherfucker, Bill?" Michael said.
"Yup."
"Well, I thank we kilt 'im."
"Kilt 'im?"
"Yup. He took Paul down to the river bottoms and tried to unzip his britches….and…"
"Huh?" I said. Paul broke in:
"That fuckin' Bill. He kept on takin' me down to the river to drink beer. When he thought I was drunk enough he'd start rubbin' my leg an' shit…"
"Huh?"
"…an' I tol' him next time we need to take a buncha boys down there."
Michael jumped in: "So we.."
Paul continued: "…loaded up with me and Michael and JD Davis an' Leeroy and went on down there with 'im. We all acted like we was drunk and he tried to git Leeroy's britches off."
"Huh?"
Michael's turn: "So we stomped that ol' motherfucker all over the river bank. He was cryin', so we stomped 'im some more. Took his billfold and his beer and his car and left his ol' …"
"…dead ass down there," Paul said. "I guess he's dead. Ain't nobody seen 'im since."
I don't remember anybody ever mentioning Ol' Bill again. No news reports. No nothing.
Southern White Trash Justice, I suppose. When there ain't no gossip about it, it never happened.
'Course, in rural Arkansas we didn't know what a priest or alter boy was. We were Baptists and Methodists and Church of Gods. But you get my point.
Ol' Bill was red-faced and old. Can't tell you how old…when you're 14 everybody looks old…but he had solid, short grey hair and a big ol' potbelly. He wore a straw cowboy hat and scuffy boots, drove an immaculate white '67 Fairlane that still had the new rubber smell to it. Bill liked to hang out at the Moore's with all us teen-age boys of a summer day, especially when Mizz Moore was in the mental hospital and Mr. Moore was at work at the pallet mill. Bill'd bring Old Milwaukee beer.
The Moores were dirt poor folk who were unfortunate enough for my dad's church to notice. That's right, "We'll bring you boxes of canned and dry goods by once a week, BUT… dress those children for church every Wednesday evening and twice on Sunday."
People got fed and fed up equally, but the price was getting on and off that beat up old bus with the 'Saving Souls One at a Time' banner on it.
Anyway, I got to know the Moore kids through Sunday school, and during summer vacation I started hanging out at their house during the day. It was cool…smokin', cussin', gettin' into mischief….everything I couldn't get away with at home. Paul, the eldest, was my hero. He was about 17. He looked like Elvis and could whup anybody around. Michael, my age, looked like Paul but was much quieter. Leeroy Jr. was crazy but had a good heart. Donna Faye was twelve but developing quick; she liked to drag me into a bedroom and play spin the bottle. And Earnest and PeeWee liked to kick me in the shins to see if I'd go off so Paul or Michael or Leeroy would kick my ass. Hanging out at the Moore's was fun…you never knew what you'd get into.
One summer day I walked up to the Moore's place and Ol' Bill was sitting on the couch. All the male kids were gathered around him, smoking and drinking Old Milwaukee; the girls weren't around for some reason. I opened the squeaky screen door and Paul said,
"Hey. Here's Steve. Git you a beer, son. Bill here brought a bunch. Thisheer's Bill."
Bill looked me up and down and held out his hand. I shook it, didn't say anything. Bill grinned. Something felt bad wrong about this dude.
I ran into Paul and Michael somewhere, some weeks later.
"You remember that old motherfucker, Bill?" Michael said.
"Yup."
"Well, I thank we kilt 'im."
"Kilt 'im?"
"Yup. He took Paul down to the river bottoms and tried to unzip his britches….and…"
"Huh?" I said. Paul broke in:
"That fuckin' Bill. He kept on takin' me down to the river to drink beer. When he thought I was drunk enough he'd start rubbin' my leg an' shit…"
"Huh?"
"…an' I tol' him next time we need to take a buncha boys down there."
Michael jumped in: "So we.."
Paul continued: "…loaded up with me and Michael and JD Davis an' Leeroy and went on down there with 'im. We all acted like we was drunk and he tried to git Leeroy's britches off."
"Huh?"
Michael's turn: "So we stomped that ol' motherfucker all over the river bank. He was cryin', so we stomped 'im some more. Took his billfold and his beer and his car and left his ol' …"
"…dead ass down there," Paul said. "I guess he's dead. Ain't nobody seen 'im since."
I don't remember anybody ever mentioning Ol' Bill again. No news reports. No nothing.
Southern White Trash Justice, I suppose. When there ain't no gossip about it, it never happened.
ft. worth
first day of summer
my time was spent in ft. worth
smile on my face.
***
they're fuckin' it up
construction is everywhere
catering to cash.
***
almost all things good
are in the panther city
'cept for me & mine.
***
i miss my peoples
every motherfuckin' day
i ain't got none here.
***
the town of my birth
lived their almost 30 yrs
then one day we left.
***
i want to move back
but i know we're not gonna
we're east texans now.
***
thanks for tearin' down the wreck room. thanks for tearin' down north hills mall. thanks for buildin' all them fuckin' strip centers. thanks for wantin' to be a shittier version of dallas.
if you refer to ft. worth as funky town, fuck you.
my time was spent in ft. worth
smile on my face.
***
they're fuckin' it up
construction is everywhere
catering to cash.
***
almost all things good
are in the panther city
'cept for me & mine.
***
i miss my peoples
every motherfuckin' day
i ain't got none here.
***
the town of my birth
lived their almost 30 yrs
then one day we left.
***
i want to move back
but i know we're not gonna
we're east texans now.
***
thanks for tearin' down the wreck room. thanks for tearin' down north hills mall. thanks for buildin' all them fuckin' strip centers. thanks for wantin' to be a shittier version of dallas.
if you refer to ft. worth as funky town, fuck you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
