we weep
together
you and i
oughtn't
we be
satisfied
i have left
behind the
blackened spoon
and you
will have your
doctor soon
so why
then
are we sad
we lay
apart the
two of us
we pray to
die and
drink and cuss
when all these things
seem so good
why then do
we feel so bad
Monday, December 31, 2012
Friday, December 28, 2012
I Don't Need You
I don't need you
to love me.
I just want
(to love)
you.
I want to be
the sun shining
on your face,
the rain that
traces your
cheek
while you
dance,
spinning in
warmest
spring downpour,
laughing.
I don't want
to swim in
your passion.
I would drown
in your soul,
arms weak- chest bursting.
I don't need
you to love me,
I just need you
to let me love
you.
to love me.
I just want
(to love)
you.
I want to be
the sun shining
on your face,
the rain that
traces your
cheek
while you
dance,
spinning in
warmest
spring downpour,
laughing.
I don't want
to swim in
your passion.
I would drown
in your soul,
arms weak- chest bursting.
I don't need
you to love me,
to let me love
you.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Sleeping Girl
Having yanked
down the mildewed
shower curtain
while
pissing blood
or Red Stripe
or whatever
and stumbling
back to a
half crumbled
pack of Kools
on her
side of the bed,
he began to
study her
sleeping face,
her other-worldly
beauty.
He stood wooden
just for
a moment,
and thought
that she was
the one he
had loved.
Having pissed,
and smoking
a Kool,
(he hated menthols)
he wondered
if he were
the only one
who sold out
and settled,
for Jamaican beer,
and shitty smokes,
and a lonely girl
he didn't know.
down the mildewed
shower curtain
while
pissing blood
or Red Stripe
or whatever
and stumbling
back to a
half crumbled
pack of Kools
on her
side of the bed,
he began to
study her
sleeping face,
her other-worldly
beauty.
He stood wooden
just for
a moment,
and thought
that she was
the one he
had loved.
Having pissed,
and smoking
a Kool,
(he hated menthols)
he wondered
if he were
the only one
who sold out
and settled,
for Jamaican beer,
and shitty smokes,
and a lonely girl
he didn't know.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Hobo Holiday
A fried egg
on the sidewalk
and a ditsy blond
with a microphone
tell me it is
a hot as hell
kind of day
and the cool air
of the library
makes me
want to nod.
My belly
wants beans,
my heart
set on booze.
My imagination
craving anything,
nothing
much to do.
Buckshot Bill and
Long-haired Tom
come back
and Tramp
not far behind.
The air thick
as a shot of
Jagermeister,
heavy
as a dog-eared copy
of The Bell Jar,
margins full
of notes.
Laying aside
paper and pen
emptying my pockets
of change and
a couple of
tattered ones onto
a torn and faded
kerchief crusted
with sweaty salt.
Tramp smiles
nods at Bill.
After the chip-in
we come up with
just over ten
bucks. Tommy
has pitched
about a nickel
of weed and
thirty seven cents
in copper
into the pot
we smile,
a hobo holiday.
We smoke
heading to the river
to swim
then over the bridge.
Quarts of five nine beer
all around.
Then another.
After the fifth inning
minor league ball
no tickets needed.
A hobo holiday.
on the sidewalk
and a ditsy blond
with a microphone
tell me it is
a hot as hell
kind of day
and the cool air
of the library
makes me
want to nod.
My belly
wants beans,
my heart
set on booze.
My imagination
craving anything,
nothing
much to do.
Buckshot Bill and
Long-haired Tom
come back
and Tramp
not far behind.
The air thick
as a shot of
Jagermeister,
heavy
as a dog-eared copy
of The Bell Jar,
margins full
of notes.
Laying aside
paper and pen
emptying my pockets
of change and
a couple of
tattered ones onto
a torn and faded
kerchief crusted
with sweaty salt.
Tramp smiles
nods at Bill.
After the chip-in
we come up with
just over ten
bucks. Tommy
has pitched
about a nickel
of weed and
thirty seven cents
in copper
into the pot
we smile,
a hobo holiday.
We smoke
heading to the river
to swim
then over the bridge.
Quarts of five nine beer
all around.
Then another.
After the fifth inning
minor league ball
no tickets needed.
A hobo holiday.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Like A Jim Croce Song
There are photographs
in the attic
of my mind.
Old black and whites
and some
in sepia tones.
They are moments
captured from
inky shadows,
memories of the
days when I was
a better man.
Now I am
somebody else.
There are pictures
in sticky page albums
but they exist
only in my dreams,
I have surrendered
the luxury of possessions
as delicate as these,
subject to curling
from the heat,
mildew on rain soaked
days spent moving
too tired to
sit still.
The attic of my mind
saves the happiest moments;
the birth of a child,
a wedding, potluck
lunches at Grandma's
house on Sunday
afternoons, snapshots of
young love
in a wooded park..
Nights alone I sit
and leaf though them
sometimes
trying to remember
sometimes
trying to forget.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Willow
Looking at photos
on a friends page
I fall in love with
a little girl
with cut-away eyes.
She is dressed smartly,
all curls and bows.
I am guessing she is
a hand full.
She takes me
back to days
with my own
little girl, her own
pouty little look,
she could twist me
so easily round
tiniest pink digits.
Sometimes older sis
and bubba already
at school and
Mom safely off,
I would skip work
she would skip daycare
and we would have milkshakes.
The day belonged to me
and a little girl
with cut-away eyes.
on a friends page
I fall in love with
a little girl
with cut-away eyes.
She is dressed smartly,
all curls and bows.
I am guessing she is
a hand full.
She takes me
back to days
with my own
little girl, her own
pouty little look,
she could twist me
so easily round
tiniest pink digits.
Sometimes older sis
and bubba already
at school and
Mom safely off,
I would skip work
she would skip daycare
and we would have milkshakes.
The day belonged to me
and a little girl
with cut-away eyes.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
A Quarter, A Dime, and Two Copper Pennies
I ease gently
through an up
to no good
night
down lawless
city streets
like Heroin
running through
veins
like a lonesome
locomotive
bound to
iron tracks,
a snare drum
and tuba song
on a loop
with no good end
in sight.
Plucking a smoke
from my lips
my arm falls limp,
dropping filter
and cherry with no
effort at all.
A brown paper
wrapped
beer can blows
in the gutter,
dancing down
the curb
with cast off
orange caps
that guarded
points and rigs
and were
never needed again.
Thirty-seven
cents sits
quietly at the bottom
of my pocket
waiting for
a dollar and
8 A.M. when
they will be called
on to get
a start on the new
day.
My heart is broken
in now, tougher
than it once was
but I hum a song
about two kids
in love and Tastee Freeze
chili dogs.
I'm loaded
in the night
like a smack
laden vein, and I
sing a song about
two kids who
were once in love.
through an up
to no good
night
down lawless
city streets
like Heroin
running through
veins
like a lonesome
locomotive
bound to
iron tracks,
a snare drum
and tuba song
on a loop
with no good end
in sight.
Plucking a smoke
from my lips
my arm falls limp,
dropping filter
and cherry with no
effort at all.
A brown paper
wrapped
beer can blows
in the gutter,
dancing down
the curb
with cast off
orange caps
that guarded
points and rigs
and were
never needed again.
Thirty-seven
cents sits
quietly at the bottom
of my pocket
waiting for
a dollar and
8 A.M. when
they will be called
on to get
a start on the new
day.
My heart is broken
in now, tougher
than it once was
but I hum a song
about two kids
in love and Tastee Freeze
chili dogs.
I'm loaded
in the night
like a smack
laden vein, and I
sing a song about
two kids who
were once in love.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Wages of Sin
The wages of sin
is death
and I can't get
paid. So
I sit on the
12 steps
that lead to
an unused door
of the church
that is called
The Stew Pot
by the tramps
that eat and use
there daily
and I cop
and try and see
if sin has
a 501k plan,
maybe a little
something for
the future.
We are all children
of something
greater, we all
sleep and dream
at night as if
we were human,
but we know
we are not.
We are reminded
daily. Ignored
by the others,
shunned and hated.
I wouldn't even
get laid if it weren't
for codependant
cuties who
want the memories
of thier fathers
to hate them too.
I would die
on a cross for
them all if
I weren't so afraid
so its soup lines
and mentally unstable
chicks and the long
slow death of addiction
for now.
is death
and I can't get
paid. So
I sit on the
12 steps
that lead to
an unused door
of the church
that is called
The Stew Pot
by the tramps
that eat and use
there daily
and I cop
and try and see
if sin has
a 501k plan,
maybe a little
something for
the future.
We are all children
of something
greater, we all
sleep and dream
at night as if
we were human,
but we know
we are not.
We are reminded
daily. Ignored
by the others,
shunned and hated.
I wouldn't even
get laid if it weren't
for codependant
cuties who
want the memories
of thier fathers
to hate them too.
I would die
on a cross for
them all if
I weren't so afraid
so its soup lines
and mentally unstable
chicks and the long
slow death of addiction
for now.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
I want to write like Tom Waits plays a tango.
I want to
write poetry
like Tom Waits
plays a tango.
I want to
love a woman
like Cuz- that
guy that sweeps
downtown,
and makes all those
funny sounds-
does his job.
Say what you want
Cuz works hard.
I want to bite
into life like it was
a sweet fruit that I
had never seen before.
Sweet and delicious,
stolen from the
free breakfast
at a hotel
I am sneaking out of
because I cannot
remember the name
of the girl
I met and screwed
after a Lit Fest thing
last night-
like something from
a Bukowski story.
I want to sleep
at night
with the peace
that is a
tiny drop of water
forming on the side
of a fresh pulled-
icy cold mug of beer.
I want to
know my children
better than I know
the four hundred
or so people
who say
I am a friend
on Facebook.
I want a Marlboro Red
kind of world
with tough guys and
horses and no thought
of consequences down the road.
I want to write poetry
that kids fresh from home
share in crowded
dorm room twin beds
on Sunday
mornings after a
Boones Farm breakfast
and decide they
want to write too.
write poetry
like Tom Waits
plays a tango.
I want to
love a woman
like Cuz- that
guy that sweeps
downtown,
and makes all those
funny sounds-
does his job.
Say what you want
Cuz works hard.
I want to bite
into life like it was
a sweet fruit that I
had never seen before.
Sweet and delicious,
stolen from the
free breakfast
at a hotel
I am sneaking out of
because I cannot
remember the name
of the girl
I met and screwed
after a Lit Fest thing
last night-
like something from
a Bukowski story.
I want to sleep
at night
with the peace
that is a
tiny drop of water
forming on the side
of a fresh pulled-
icy cold mug of beer.
I want to
know my children
better than I know
the four hundred
or so people
who say
I am a friend
on Facebook.
I want a Marlboro Red
kind of world
with tough guys and
horses and no thought
of consequences down the road.
I want to write poetry
that kids fresh from home
share in crowded
dorm room twin beds
on Sunday
mornings after a
Boones Farm breakfast
and decide they
want to write too.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Reap The Whirlwind
I met my wife, this last one, a long time ago and our story doesn't paint a very pretty picture of me but when a lawyer from Alabama recently contacted my mother I was reminded of her, and the story we wrote together. That's the one I will tell you now.
Her name was Shelly and she was a troubled 18-year-old from Birmingham, Alabama. Her roots involved snake-handling ministers for a mother and father, a childhood rape, and a nasty heroin addiction.
I was the son of an Elder in the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, a natural alcoholic with a weakness for shooting cocaine and a frustrated poet. We met in a Christian rehab where the courts had sent me and had stayed on as a counselor after completing a year-long program of Bible studies, prayer and a troublesome requirement of fasting at least one day a week. I had been there for nearly two years when Shelly's mother delivered her to us literally kicking and screaming to the Grace Mission Bible Training Center. She was still too high to know the next day's lone promise to her was she would be dope sick, and if you have never been dope sick it's nothing to look forward to. The rehab was established at an old Baptist campground in North East Arkansas with groups of cabins for males and females on opposite sides of the property, a large cafeteria, a few other out-buildings and a swimming pool. It was covered in trees and flowering bushes of all sorts. Deer, squirrel and other wildlife scampered about like a scene from "Snow White." It was a picture of the Natural State's beauty.
I hated it.
It was the opposite of where I would have chosen to be; I was more of a crumbling brick alleys and dark downtown bars kind of guy. I wore black suits and slick polished Stacy Adams with skinny laces like my father wore. He called them his "Sunday shoes". I combed my hair into a greasy D.A. though the style was more than half a century in the grave. The dust clung to my clothes and dulled my shoes, the heat was unbearable and my allergies made me miserable.
It was a pretty tough lifestyle for a bunch of dope fiends turned Disciples of Christ but I found a sort of gray space to live in and I had been clean for longer than I had ever been and that was true for many others who had come from all across the country to try anything to kick dope.
On the other hand, the program itself smelled a little bit like a hustle, especially to me. They would send out mailers each month to everybody that they had an address for, addresses the residents gave them as soon as they arrived. A list of desperate loved ones who would do anything to have junior, or sister, or sweetie escape the mire and muck was the only cost. The flyers were veiled newsletters with needs lists for everything from dried beans and toilet paper to pickup trucks and calls for financial assistance. They also put together teams of people to go and "share" at churches or sometimes take over worship services, preaching and all.
That's where I came in. I was a ringer. My father's son, lucky enough to remember most anything I read, including the Bible, and a performer at heart. I could preach my ass off. In return, the supervisors at Grace allowed me a wider gray area than they afforded most staff.
Oddly enough just a few weeks before Shelly's arrival, one of my best friends from high school became a resident of the program. John Oliver Henry the third was a repeater so he knew the deal pretty well and I felt comfortable enough talking to him about my likes and dislikes concerning the lay of the land. We were not really suppose to hang with other residents that we had used with but the two of us knew how to play it cool so nobody really complained.
He and I were walking to the cafeteria that doubled as a worship center when my future wife was dragged from her mother's Lincoln Continental. We watched with wide eyes for a moment as she cursed God, her mother, and the entire state of Arkansas. It was surreal this 50 something year old woman in a long skirt with hair piled high on her head, clearly a Pentecostal, with big beefy arms wrestling a young stoned chick from a car that had been paid for by a congregation who had witnessed the larger of the two visitors tempt venomous serpents to screw with her and the force field of her Mighty God.Shelly was small but built well and wore torn Levi's and a dark baby-doll T. Spittle flew from her mouth as she uttered phrases that could make old-school sailors' cheeks burn fire-truck red.
I was in love.
Or at least that's what I turned to tell my old schoolmate, along with a promise that I would have her for my own. Two weeks later, having run off together, we were married in a hastily thrown-together wedding featuring her in a white gown, me in my best suit and both sets of our parents in the Church of God on 6 and 1/2 street in the Northeast Arkansas town where my mother still lives. The pastor was a talented musician who had played the bar circuit for years before he got respectability and was a friend of mine. I knew he'd do the gig for free.
I was almost 20 years older than Shelly but that didn't seem to trouble her mother, nor did the fact we had just met.
"We will have the rest of our lives to get to know each other," I told my mother-in-law. I never guessed for a second just how crazy Shelly's mother was, how crazy Shelly was, or that her mother was relieved to see Shelly out of Alabama and no longer her responsibility. Sometimes I am slow to put together angles on certain things. This time, I was just plain dumb.
Everything seemed to go well at first. I was lucky enough to get a great job as a wielder in a place that made railroad cars, Shelly was cleaning houses for a lady who owned a service, and we moved into a small yet adequate apartment. We spent our wedding night in the new place, interrupted occasionally by twitching people with hungry eyes asking for "the old man." It didn't take a genius to figure out we had moved into a place where the former tenant had sold methamphetamine.
Considering the age difference between my new bride and myself, I didn't need the distraction It was the next morning that was the real shocker though, because at about dawn there was another knock on the door. I just shouted through the door that the "old man" didn't live there anymore. After a couple of desperate sounding questions, the guy left and I returned to bed.
Less than a half hour later another knock, and I lost my cool.
"We just moved in and the old man ain't here," I shouted.
"Greene County Sheriffs Department. Open the door," came the reply.
Another harbinger of what lay ahead for me.
Again I was oblivious, deeply in lust and happy to be free of the Grace Mission Bible Training Center's constraints. It seems the last visitor had broken out of jail and planned to lay low at his dealer's house until he could move on. Someone had seen him outside that morning and called the sheriff. My felony record and a naked girl who, judging by her looks, may or may not be the age of legal consent, caused me more than a few uncomfortable moments before the khaki-clad gentleman with a large handgun decided to leave us alone to enjoy matrimony's pleasures.
My two years of clean time was already shot. The only thing I couldn't resist was temptation. I began to snort lines of meth off welding hoods at work with some of the guys who had been there a while. I kept it a secret from Shelly, who quit her job after seeing my first paycheck and suddenly decided to live a life of domestic bliss.
One late afternoon when I got home from work I was struck with an overpowering, sweet smell. Like a hothouse had puked in my living room. Floral overload.
'What the hell?', I thought and then noticed Shelly slumped over on the couch, a dishrag wadded in her hand, and maybe a half a dozen air freshener aerosol cans scattered across the floor at her feet. I was angry.
Stupid, I will admit considering my own aforementioned weakness, but I shouted at her to get up and get in the car. She was startled, not quite yet clear-headed, but she did as I said looking a little frightened about what I might have in mind. I peeled out from the driveway and headed straight away to the state line. I bought a half a gallon of whiskey, a case of beer for her and maybe twenty dollars worth of scratch-off lottery tickets. She looked at me like I was Santa Claus. From there we made a looping out of the way circle back home stopping in Jonesboro for crack cocaine and Dilaudid. I was her personal Jesus — having delivered her from boredom and sobriety, and restored her to her former glorious junky self.
I lost my job two days later. The apartment lasted maybe another month.
We used all day, every day. We drank from the time we woke up until the time we went to sleep. We often kept a drink on the nightstand of the shitty little hotel rooms that we stayed in just in case we woke in the night. We used cocaine, heroin, pills of all sorts and we smoked weed. We shoplifted. We lied. We broke into homes and, of course, we tricked. Most of the time I would wait in the bathroom and when she would bring in the John, I would rob them but sometimes we would go to the dealer and she would go inside to cop. I would wait chewing my fingernails for the 20 minutes or so she'd be inside and then start the engine as soon as she walked out the door. We would race back to the room to get high, neither of us caring about the things we did. In between hustling and copping, we would get into terrible fights, shouting at the top of our lungs, sometimes worse. Shelly was terribly jealous.
During this time, dark as it was, we began to love each other dearly. We were the same. Neither of us had experienced anything like that before. Both of us carried such a heavy sadness that we could not stand to feel, so we went to the most outrageous extremes not to. Yet here we were, falling in love in a way that only the very young and the deeply mad could understand.
Our adventures grew more and more bold and we were involved in high-speed pursuits. Shelly would drive the "getaway" car and I would steal from businesses often in broad daylight. Shelly was night blind and was supposed to wear thick glasses but would not. Once while being pursued by police in the evening, I literally had to talk her through the chase as she could not see the roads until we blew past them. We kept running and with sirens and lights flashing our pursuers were relentless. Shell turned and looked at me, with a huge smile on her face,
"We're Bonnie and Clyde."
Like I said, she was nuts.
"OK Bonnie, kill the lights, don't touch the brakes and when I say so pull up as far as you can into a driveway."
She did and we got away but after that night I began to have serious doubts about our future as snatch-and-grab guys. The water pump on the car was going out and we had damaged a wheel running over a curb. The car was unlikely to hold up and our luck was running thin. Sometimes we would just drive around looking for small pawnable stuff in carports, or a bright red gas jug. We didn't pay for anything but dope, and a five-gallon gas lick never went by, without us taking advantage.
Just before Halloween we were driving around like this when the car began to get hot. We were losing a lot of water from the bad pump and the start-and-stop driving we did on our missions made it hard for the car to maintain a temperature that wouldn't damage the heads without stopping often and letting the engine cool and adding water.
It was about time for just such a pit stop when I saw one of those huge inflatable bouncy houses like people rent for children's parties in front of a church packed with cars and a sign out front that read "Fall Festival." I told her to pull in hoping to hit someone up for a few bucks while I got water. When we parked I could see they were eating, so I thought we could probably eat too.
"Think we could get some water? We've just driven into town from southern Alabama and the Lord's allowed us to be tested the entire trip".
"Sure thing", a kind older guy said, "What brought you guys here"?
"We were missionaries involved with a faith-based rehab center for the desperate and the hopeless. There were some issues and we decided to come back here. I'm from here."
Shelly was still sitting in the car. She never really like the soft con, she didn't feel like she was very good at it. When it came to straight talking someone out of money, the chore was mine.
"To be honest," I went on, "we've had some real car problems as you can see, caused my gas mileage to be poor, and we're broke. Thank the Lord in Heaven though, He delivered us here just like we asked him too. One more thing if I could ask, we haven't eaten a thing since early this morning do you think my wife might get one of those burgers? I am fine but I know she's hungry, though she'd never say so".
"Well sure, sure you guys come on in here and join us, won't you? We'd be happy to have you join us."
He walked on over toward the church where they were all gathered to eat, I got back in the car to tell Shelly what had happened.
"I don't want to eat," she said, "I'm not hungry."
" Goddammit Shelly I don't care how messed up you are, or how hungry you are, I want you to get your pretty little ass in there and help me work this shit. We can eat and that guy will probably give us twenty bucks when we get done. Let's go."
Reluctantly, she came in with me. The man I had spoke to was sitting at a table with his wife and two empty chairs. They had already made our plates.
"So tell me a little about this place where you guys came from," he asked. He was genuinely interested.
I explained to him about the rehabs mission, changing only where it was located. I told him that while I believed in what they were doing, there had been some sexual sins committed at the leadership levels and that I began to be uncomfortable and prayed for guidance. Most of the details I gave him were true, but I changed the facts just enough to suit my needs.
" I was reading my Bible one night after diligent prayer," I said. "It was the story of the demon-possessed man- from Mark I believe, can't be sure because, as you know the story is told in all the synoptic gospels," with just enough confusion so as not to sound canned but also theo-scholarly as I used the phrase "synoptic gospels."
"You know the story I am sure — the man that lived in the places of the dead, and cut himself. When Christ asked him his name, he replied 'I am legion for we are many.' Then the demons are cast out into the pigs and the pigs jump from the cliff."
I was in control, it was a subject I had used from the pulpit many times, a good parallel to people who have a demonic addiction and are being delivered from it. In the old days it always had them reaching for their wallets. Such is the power of The Word. I could tell by their expressions that he and his wife were similarly entranced, so I went in for the big kill.
"What a lot of people don't really pay attention to, and what God shared with me through His living, breathing word that night was what happened next — the man so utterly relieved to be free of the demons, so joyous to be loosed from the death and the hurting of his life wanted to go with Jesus, wanted to hop in that boat with Jesus and the others and serve Him. But Jesus, had another plan." I am talking in my deep preacher's voice now, channeling my father and that booming bass voice that made me squirm on the hard wooden pews of my youth. Afraid to die. Afraid of Hell. "Jesus, who was surely moved by the conversion of this man, told the formerly demon possessed man: 'No, I want you to go home and tell the people there what God has done for you.' People at nearby tables were looking over by then. I sense I am moving others in the room as well, "and that is my calling as well ... I have come back here to show the people who knew the old me that that guy is dead, that God Himself has changed me, to tell people who never knew me what God" ... I stretch God out into a nearly three-syllable word ... "has done in my life."
It takes a moment for the couple sitting across from Shelly and myself to speak, for them to regain their thoughts — then suddenly a wide happy smile spreads across their faces and the man stands and stretches out his hand to shake mine. They are pleased to see the faith that they have is in a deity powerful enough to change lives.
They don't know that with me, it didn't take.
"We would be pleased to have you come worship with us tomorrow, if you would. Of course, we'd want to get you a hotel room for the night and put some gas in your car too."
"We would be honored to join you. And thanks for your help. I felt like the Lord was leading me here for a reason."
They took us to one of the nicer hotels around, paid for two nights, and gave me thirty bucks. We drove straight to a trap house and bought some crack. Since we already had a room in the sleazy hotel that was much closer to the dope part of town we sold the card key, and room too. The next morning I ran out and made some waffles at the Motel 6 put them in a take-out box I already had, swung by and got Shelly some hydrocodones so she wouldn't get sick before it was all over and went back to the room. After I woke her, Shelly gobbled up the pain pills, picked at the waffle and bitched about going back to church.
"What if they figured out already? What if they know?"
She didn't really care about that so much as she knew it would be three or four hours before we could get high again. The hydros really would just help her maintain. When Shelly and I got high, we liked to get all the way high. I was shaving and pissed because I couldn't have a drink. They would smell it for sure.
"Goddammit, Shelly. Get a freakin' dress on, you want to wait all fuckin' day for a trick or something to steal? It's Sunday in Jonesboro Arkansas. This is gonna be a good lick and there ain't shit else going on."
She threw an ashtray at me but it wasn't even close, so I just went about my business and she started to get dressed. She was such a beautiful woman that I paused shaving long enough to watch her strip down to nothing while she grumbled about pulling accessories out of different bags and suitcases that I had brought in from the car.
Even though I was in a hurry I turned and smiled my most brilliant come-hither smile at her. She cursed me but when I pulled her to me and kissed her leaving shaving cream on her face she laughed and we made love like old people drive. Reckless and with abandon.
Thirty minutes later we were at the church in time for Sunday school, barely. In class I fairly took over, and after I was asked to share my testimony for the morning's message. When I finished, I understood what Mick Jagger must feel like at the end of a concert. I was a rock star. When I walked from the pulpit toward the back door nearly everyone I passed pushed money into my hands as I shook theirs. Shelly had been crying through the whole thing — a special talent of hers — and these people loved us. The couple who had invited us to church then asked us to lunch and we accepted even though we already had enough money for a real cool party.
We ate at some place country — I can't remember where — but Shelly had gizzards. I remember that much. It was a cliche scene of southern life, the sweet smiling faced Christians enjoying Dixie Cafe or Cracker Barrel or some other crappy little place on Sunday afternoon. Soon the talk turned to us again and how the couple could help.
"Justin, every year our family does something a little different at Christmas. You see we all already have everything we can use, in the way of things ya know, so a few years ago we all started pitching all the money that we would normally spend on gifts for each other and we give it away. To some needy family ya know. Well this year we want you guys to have it. We know you need it and we just want to sow a seed with you. We know you all are gonna do big things. It would make us very happy if you'd accept it."
I could feel my pulse quicken as my "monster" stirred, hungry and ready to be fed. Shelly squirmed in her chair and I was afraid she might vomit with anticipation. We began to try and move things along so we could get out of there. The old man and woman wanted us to have dessert but we begged off, he walked me to the car and gave me an envelope. I thanked him and put it in the inside breast pocket of my jacket.
When I got in the car Shelly had already taken off her shoes and panty hose. I was a little turned on by her bare legs, the memory of that morning's sex but the "monster " wouldn't wait.
Even as the restaurant door was closing I peeled away from the place as fast as our crippled little four cylinder would carry us. I pulled over a couple blocks away to call the dope boys and looked inside the envelope — it contained 30 crisp one-hundred dollar bills. We laid up getting high for a week until every penny was gone.
After that we did the church thing every chance we had. We eventually got serious enough about this to con to plot which church we should hit next, based on location. Once we hit two churches right next to each other on the same day. It never again payed like the first one did, but it always paid.
All good things must come to an end and the end of our story arrived on Shelly's birthday. We had been getting high all day at the hotel where the drunks and hookers stayed, over on Gee Street and Shelly kept calling Ron Ron, the sister of the guy we bought crack from, who was pregnant.
Shelly had lost a baby a couple of months before and she really liked Ron Ron a lot anyway, so she decided we should go and get Ron Ron a baby shower gift. 'What the hell?', I say and we head to town. I am sitting in the car in a mall parking lot while Shelly goes in to "boost" something nice. I am smoking a rock and a little paranoid so I am already staring around paranoid around when I see Shelly coming. She is so fucked up that she is unaware of the guy walking up fast behind her. Could be a security guy from inside, could be somebody we've burned but whoever he is I know we have got to get down. I start the motor and roll up to Shelly while throwing her door open.
"Get in!"
She jumps in and I jam on the gas. The guy following her jumps in front of the car, his arms out in front of him like he is Superman and he can stop our forward motion with the power of the yellow sun. Instead he rolls over the hood and on up over the top as I go out backwards through the Burger King driveway, almost T-boning a police car when I pull into traffic. We pull every trick out of the bag but it seems every time we turn a corner there were two more cops. I look at Shelly and say, "I don't know what you stole in there Shel, but this ain't got shit to do with that."
"Just pull over. I'll tell 'em it was all me. Just pull over."
But I don't. I keep on driving and by the finish there were probably 40 cars involved. Only when I was completely boxed in did I stop. I turn to her,
"I love you baby, I'll probably be gone for a year or so but I love you."
The cops run to the car with guns drawn. They didn't even ask my name they just cuff me and put me in the back seat of the nearest car. I see my picture on the dash computer along with a B.O.L.O for the car. I go straight to county. An hour or so later from my holding cell I hear Shelly shout, "I love you, Justin."
She can't see me but she knows I must still be there. We both had been here and done this before.
I went to prison for breaking and entering, taking all the charges so that Shelly might have another chance. She wrote me a few times but we never saw each other after that.
We knew we were bad for each other. According to the lawyer who contacted my mother she finally had a couple of babies of her own. The lawyer said her mother was trying to adopt them, and they needed my permission because I was still legally her husband, and the children's father though there was no way I could have fathered them, the math isn't even close.
I'd like to see them though.
And Shelly.
But I won't.
Instead I'll sit back with a Knob Creek and Coke and think about the kids Shelly and I might have had together in a parallel world where the only monsters live under the bed,
and they aren't real.
Just something for mothers and fathers of special little kids to check for at bedtime.
Friday, June 15, 2012
A Bluesmans Brag.
I woke up this morning,
as the blues singers like to boast
Billy Collins
I woke up this morning
as the blues singers like to boast
having drank all night
because of woman trouble
with some colorful free spirit
of a gal with gunshot scars
who is named for a city
named on some list of cities,
the worse to live in
in the entirety of the United States.
Not me but the blues guys
and I mean both kinds
the real one who know what it
means to be class four and thirty
here in the Delta and the white guys
with the bad teeth from England
who worship them.
At any rate I did in fact
wake up this morning and having
sufficient brain cells still on hand and
firing decided to get myself a beer
in the words of Jim Morrison who sort
of did poetry in a Texas Psychedelic way
with a nod to the tight pants bad teeth
guys who wished they were
the Delta blues guys who may
or may not have been named
for a Southern water way.
So I drank the aforementioned
beer and two of her sisters
who sported a new look for the same
old Miller Highlife Quarts
I have been drinking for years.
Then I sat down and read
some really great poetry and thought
about all the poems I have
written that started out
like a blues mans brag. What is it
then about the morning that compels me to write about
it? Maybe just the overwhelming
feeling of winning by just hanging in there
one more day, no greater feeling than
getting shot at and missed.
So much better than getting shit on and hit.
as the blues singers like to boast
Billy Collins
I woke up this morning
as the blues singers like to boast
having drank all night
because of woman trouble
with some colorful free spirit
of a gal with gunshot scars
who is named for a city
named on some list of cities,
the worse to live in
in the entirety of the United States.
Not me but the blues guys
and I mean both kinds
the real one who know what it
means to be class four and thirty
here in the Delta and the white guys
with the bad teeth from England
who worship them.
At any rate I did in fact
wake up this morning and having
sufficient brain cells still on hand and
firing decided to get myself a beer
in the words of Jim Morrison who sort
of did poetry in a Texas Psychedelic way
with a nod to the tight pants bad teeth
guys who wished they were
the Delta blues guys who may
or may not have been named
for a Southern water way.
So I drank the aforementioned
beer and two of her sisters
who sported a new look for the same
old Miller Highlife Quarts
I have been drinking for years.
Then I sat down and read
some really great poetry and thought
about all the poems I have
written that started out
like a blues mans brag. What is it
then about the morning that compels me to write about
it? Maybe just the overwhelming
feeling of winning by just hanging in there
one more day, no greater feeling than
getting shot at and missed.
So much better than getting shit on and hit.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Advice on Writing From a Great Black Bird Near the Broadway Bridge (with apologies to Phyliss Levin)
Forget the comma, the crow said, darting
onto another branch, random joy being his,
Open Field by Phyliss Levin
Forget the comma, the crow said, darting
onto another branch, random joy being his,
and quit counting syllables and making
da DA sounds under your breath
its been done
to death.
Forget the rules of grammar, and
societies niceties, but rather fly.
Leap then soar, first with newness,
then in homage to Beat Daddies gone before.
You cannot be groovy while grounded, and
creativity can't be seen from where
the others are standing (still). Ignore the
ones who surrender that power to rule. Forget
the semi-colon, the letters capitalized,
the couplets and the styles that scream "never more".
Fly.
Fly with your words,
your scratching ink on clean white page
and forget the crooked fear that
gives you pause on earth.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
37 flavors
don't kid yourself:
something kills them all-
finally it becomes a matter of
dying of one thing or
the other-
the swollen belly children
go the way of famine,
the young men give in
to glory of war
silver haired women
yesterdays muses
fade and crumble to dust
for want of love
the memories of spring
and sex and song
and sonnet all that
is left
blue teens kill red ones
and gravy took my old man
and only a promise made
to someone last week
keeps me from drinking myself
to death
something kills them all-
finally it becomes a matter of
dying of one thing or
the other-
the swollen belly children
go the way of famine,
the young men give in
to glory of war
silver haired women
yesterdays muses
fade and crumble to dust
for want of love
the memories of spring
and sex and song
and sonnet all that
is left
blue teens kill red ones
and gravy took my old man
and only a promise made
to someone last week
keeps me from drinking myself
to death
sad
I drunk call
an old friend
I am sad
I say
Why
she asks
why are you
sad
I tell her
about my shit
things I think
that would
make one
sad
lies
she is sympathetic
caring
I feel less
sad
but I havent
written
anything in weeks
and I think
I am dying
an old friend
I am sad
I say
Why
she asks
why are you
sad
I tell her
about my shit
things I think
that would
make one
sad
lies
she is sympathetic
caring
I feel less
sad
but I havent
written
anything in weeks
and I think
I am dying
Sunday, April 22, 2012
The Monster Within and a Troubeled Teen Bride
I met my wife, this last one, a long time ago and the story of us doesn't paint a very pretty picture of me but when a lawyer from Alabama recently contacted my mother I was reminded of her, and the story we wrote together, the one that I will tell you now.
Her name was Shelly and she was a troubled 18 year old from Birmingham. Her roots involved snake handling ministers for a mother and father, a childhood rape, and a nasty heroin addiction. I was the son of an Elder in the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, a natural alcoholic with a weakness for shooting cocaine and a frustrated poet. We met in a christian rehab where I had been sent by the courts and stayed on as a counselor after completing a year long program of bible studies, prayer and the troubling requirement of fasting at least one day week. I had been there for nearly two years when Shelly's mother delivered her kicking and screaming to the Grace Mission Bible Training Center. She was still too high to know that the next days only promise to her was that she was going to be dope sick, and it wouldn't be pretty.
The rehab was established at an old Baptist campgrounds with groups of cabins for males and females on opposite sides of the property, a large cafeteria, a few other out buildings, and a swimming pool. It was covered in trees and flowering bushes of all sorts. Deer, squirrel and other wildlife scampered about like a scene from Snow White. It was a picture of the Natural States beauty. I hated it. It was the opposite of where I would have chosen to be; I was more of an crumbling brick alleys and dark downtown bars kind of guy. I wore black suits and slick polished Stacy Adams and combed my hair into a D.A. though the style was more than half a century in the grave. The dust clung to my clothes and dulled my shoes, the heat was unbearable, and my allergies made me miserable.
It was a pretty tough life-style for a bunch of dope fiends turned Disciples of Christ but I found a sort of grey area to live in and I really had been clean longer than I had ever been, and that was true for many others who had come from all across the country to try anything next to kick dope as well.
On the other hand the program itself smelled a little bit like a hustle, especially to a guy like me. They would send out these mailers each month with needs lists for things like dried beans, toilet paper or pick-up trucks and pleas for financial assistance. They put together teams of people to go and "share" at churches or sometimes take over complete worship services, preaching and all. That's where I came in, I was a natural, my fathers son, lucky enough to remember most anything I read, including the Bible, and a performer at heart. I preached my ass off. In return the authorities over me at Grace allowed me a wider grey area than they afforded most staff.
Oddly enough just a few weeks before Shelly's arrival, one of my best friends from high school became a resident of the program, he was a repeater so he knew the deal pretty well and I felt comfortable enough talking to him about my likes and dislikes concerning the lay of the land. He and I were walking to the cafeteria that doubled as a worship center when my future wife was literally dragged from her mothers Lincoln Continental, we watched wide eyed a moment as she cursed God, her mother, and the entire state of Arkansas. She was small but built well and wore torn Levi's and a dark baby doll T. Spittle flew from her mouth as she uttered phrases that would make old school sailors cheeks burn firetruck red. I was in love.
Or at least that's what I turned and told my old school mate, along with a promise that I would have her for my own. Two weeks later having run off together we were married in a hastily thrown together wedding including her in a white gown, me in my best suit and both sets of our parents in the Church of God on 6 and 1/2 street in the Northeast Arkansas town where my mother still lives.
I was almost twenty years older than Shelly but that didn't seem to trouble her mother, neither the fact that we had just met. "We will have the rest of our lives to get to know each other" I told my mother-in-law. I never guessed for a second just how crazy Shelly's mother was, how crazy Shelly was, or that her mother was relieved to see Shelly gone from Alabama and no longer her responsibility. Sometimes I am slow to put together the angles on a certain thing. This time I was just plain dumb.
Everything seemed to go well at first. I was lucky enough to get a great job as a wielder in a place that made railroad cars, Shelly was working cleaning houses for a lady who owned a service, and we moved into a small but adequate apartment. We spent our wedding night in the new place, interrupted occasionally by twitching people with hungry eyes asking for "the old man". It didn't take genius to figure out we had moved into a place where the former tenant had sold methamphetamine. Considering the age difference between my new bride and myself, I didn't need the distraction. It was the next morning that was the real shocker though, at about dawn another knock on the door. I just shouted through the door that the "old man" didn't live there anymore. After a couple of desperate sounding questions, this guy left and I returned to bed. Less than a half hour later another knock, and I lost my cool.
"We just moved in and the old man ain't here", I shouted.
" Greene County Sheriffs Department- Open the door", came the reply.
Another harbinger of what lay ahead for me. Again I was oblivious, deeply in lust and happy to be free of the constraints of the Grace Mission Bible Training Center. It seems that the last visitor had broken out of jail and planned to lay low at his dealers house until he could move on. Someone had seen him outside that morning and called the Sheriff's Department. My felony record and a naked girl who, judging by her looks, may or may not be the age of legal consent caused me more than a few uncomfortable moments before the khaki clad gentlemen with large handguns decided to leave us alone to enjoy the pleasures of matrimony.
My two years clean time was already shot, the only thing I couldn't resist was temptation. I began to snort lines off wielding hoods at work with some of the guys who had been there a while. I kept it a secret from Shelly who quit her job after my first paycheck and decided suddenly to live a life of domestic bliss.
One afternoon late when I got home from work I was struck with the most overpowering sweet smell. Like a hothouse had puked in my living room. Floral overload. 'What the hell?', I thought and then noticed Shelly slumped over on the couch, a dishrag wadded in her hand, and maybe a half a dozen air freshener aerosol cans scattered across the floor at her feet. I was angry. Stupid, I will admit considering my own aforementioned weakness, but I shouted at her to get up and get in the car. She was startled, not quite yet clear-headed, but she did as I said looking a little frightened about what I might have in mind. I peeled out from the driveway and headed straight away to the state line. I bought a half a gallon of whiskey, a case of beer for her and maybe twenty dollars worth of scratch off lotto tickets. She looked at me like I was Santa Claus. From there we made a looping out of the way circle back home stopping in Jonesboro for crack cocaine and Dilated. I was her personal Jesus- having delivered her from boredom and sobriety, and restored her to her former glorious junky self.
I lost my job two days later. The apartment lasted maybe another month.
We used all day everyday. We drank from the time we woke up until the time we went to sleep. Often keeping a drink on the nightstand of the shitty little hotel rooms that we stayed in just in case we woke in the night. We used cocaine, heroin, pills of all sorts and we smoked weed. We shoplifted. We lied. We broke into homes and, of course, we tricked. Most of the time I would wait in the bathroom and when she would bring in the john I would rob them but sometimes we would go to the dealer and she would go inside to cop. I would wait chewing my fingernails for the twenty minutes or so she'd be inside and then start the engine as soon as she'd come out the door. We would race back to the room to get high, neither if us caring about the things we did. In between hustling and coping we would get into terrible fights, shouting at the top of our lungs, sometimes worse. Shelly was terribly jealous.
During this time, dark as it we was, we began to love each other dearly. We were the same, and we had never experienced anything like that before. Both of us carried such a heavy sadness that we could not stand to feel, we went to the most outrageous extremes not to. Yet here we were, falling in love in a way that only the very young and the deeply mad could understand.
Our adventures grew more and more bold and we were involved in high speed pursuits. Shelly would drive the "getaway" car and I would steal from businesses often in broad daylight. Shelly was night blind and was suppose to wear thick glasses but would not. Once while being pursued by police in the evening I literally had to talk her through the chase as she could not see the roads until we blew past them. We kept running and with sirens and lights flashing our pursuers were relentless. Shell turned and looked at me a huge smile on her face,
"We're Bonnie and Clyde".
She was nuts, like I said.
"Okay Bonnie kill the lights, don't touch the brakes and when I say so pull up as far as you can into a driveway".
She did and we got away but after that night I began to have serious doubts about our future as snatch and grab guys. The water pump on the car was going out and we had damaged a wheel running over a curb. The car wouldn't hold up and our luck was running thin. Sometimes we would just drive around looking for small pawnable stuff in carports, or a bright red gas jug. We didn't pay for anything but dope, and a five gallon gas lick never went by, without us taking advantage. Just before Halloween we were driving around like this when the car began to get hot. We were losing a lot of water from the bad pump and the start and stop driving we did on these missions in particular made it hard for the car to maintain a temperature that wouldn't damage the heads without stopping often and letting the engine cool and adding water. It was about time for just such a pit stop when I saw one of those huge inflatable bouncy houses like people rent for children's parties in front of a church packed with cars and a sign out front that read "Fall Festival". I told her to pull in hoping to hit someone up for a few bucks while I got water. When we parked I could see that they were eating so I thought we could probably eat too.
" Think we could get some water?, we've just driven into town from southern Alabama and the Lords allowed us to be tested the entire trip".
"Sure thing", the kind older guy said, "What brought you guys here"?
"We were missionaries involved with an faith based rehab center for the desperate and the hopeless. There were some issues and we decided to come back here; I'm from here."
Shelly was still sitting in the car. She never really like the soft con, didn't feel like she was very good at it. When it came to straight talking someone out of the money, the choir was mine.
" To be honest" I went on, "we've had some real car problems as you can see, caused my gas mileage to be poor, and we're broke. Thank the Lord in Heaven though, He delivered us here just like we asked him too. One more thing if I could ask, we haven't eaten a thing since early this morning do you think my wife might get one of those burgers? I am fine but I know she's hungry though she'd never say so".
"Well sure , sure you guys come on in here and join us won't you. We'd be happy to have you join us".
He walked on over toward the church where they were all gathered to eat, I got back in the car to tell Shelly what had happened.
"I don't want to eat ", she said, " I'm not hungry".
" Goddammit Shelly I don't care how messed up you are, or how hungry you are, I want you to get your pretty little ass in there and help me work this shit. We can eat and that guy will probably give us twenty bucks when we get done. Lets go."
Reluctantly she came in with me, the man I had spoke to was sitting at a table with his wife and two empty chairs. They had already made our plates.
"So tell me a little about this place where you guys came from", he asked. Genuinely interested.
I explained to him about the mission of the rehab, changing only where it was located. I told him that while I believed in what they were doing, there had been some sexual sins committed at the leadership levels and that I began to be uncomfortable and prayed for guidance. Most of the details I had given him were true but I changed the facts just enough to suit my needs.
" I was reading my Bible one night after diligent prayer", I said "the story of the demon possessed man from Mark I believe, can't be sure because, as you know the story is told in all the synoptic gospels", with just enough confusion so as not to sound canned but also theo-scholarly as I used the phrase "synoptic gospels".
"You know the story I am sure -the man that lived in the places of the dead, and cut himself. When Christ asked him his name, he replied 'I am legion for we are many'. Then the demons are cast out into the pigs and the pigs jump from the cliff".
I was in control, it was a subject I had used from the pulpit many times, a good parallel to people who have the demon addiction and are being delivered from it. In the old days it always had them reaching for their wallets. Such is the power of the word. I could tell by their expressions that he and his wife were similarly entranced, so I went in for the big finish,
"What a lot of people don't really pay attention to, and what God shared with me through His living, breathing word that night was what happened next - the man so utterly relieved to be free of the demons, so joyous to be loosed from the death and the hurting of his life wanted to go with Jesus, wanted to hop in that boat with Jesus and the others and serve Him. But Jesus, had another plan" I am talking in my deep preachers voice now, channeling my father and that booming bass voice that had me squirming on those hard wooden pews of my youth, afraid to die. Afraid of Hell. " Jesus surely moved by the conversion of this man told the formerly demon possessed man 'No, I want you to go home and tell the people there what God has done for you'. People at nearby tables are looking over now, I sense I am moving others in the room as well, "and that is my calling as well I have come back here to show the people who knew the old me that that guy is dead, that God Himself has changed me, to tell people who never knew me what God" I stretch God out into a near three syllable word, " has done in my life".
It takes a moment for the couple sitting across from Shelly and myself to speak, for them to even regain their thoughts - then suddenly a wide happy smile spreads across their faces and the man stands and stretches out a hand to shake mine. They are pleased to see the faith that they have, is in a Deity powerful enough to change lives. They don't know that with me, it didn't take.
"We would be pleased to have you come worship with us tomorrow if you would. Of course we'd want to get you a hotel room for the night and put some gas in your car too".
"We would be honored to join you. And thanks for your help I felt like the Lord was leading me here for a reason."
They took us to one of the nicer hotels around, paid for two nights, and gave me thirty bucks. We drove straight to a trap house and bought some crack. Since we already had a room in the sleazy hotel that was much closer to the dope part of town we sold the card key, and room too. The next morning I ran out and made some waffles at the Motel 6 put them in a take out box I already had, swung by and got Shelly some hydrocodones so she wouldn't get sick before it was all over and went back to the room. When I woke her Shelly gobbled up the pain pills, picked at the waffle and bitched about going back to the church.
"What if they figured out already. What if they know".
She didn't really care about that so much as she knew it would be three or four hours before we'd get high again. The hydros really would just help her maintain, when me and Shelly got high we liked to be all the way high. I was shaving and pissed because I couldn't have a drink. They would smell it for sure.
"Goddammit Shelly get a freakin' dress on, you want to wait all fuckin' day for a trick or something to steal? It's Sunday in Jonesboro Arkansas this is gonna be a good lick and there ain't shit else going on."
She threw an ashtray at me but it wasn't even close so I just went about my business and she started to get dressed. She was such a beautiful woman that I paused shaving long enough to watch her strip down to nothing while she grumbled about pulling accessories out of different bags and suitcases that I had brought in from the car. Even though I was in a hurry I turned and smiled my most brilliant come hither smile at her. She cursed me but when I pulled her to me and kissed her leaving shaving cream on her face she laughed and we made love like old people driving. Reckless and with abandon.
Thirty minutes later we were at the church in time for Sunday school, barely. In class I fairly took over, and after I was asked to share my testimony for the mornings message. When I finished I understood what Mick Jagger must feel like at the end of a concert. When I walked from the pulpit towards the back door nearly everyone I passed pushed money into my hands as I shook theirs. Shelly had been crying through the whole thing- a special talent of hers, and these people loved us. The couple that had invited us asked us to lunch and we accepted even though we already had enough money for a real cool party.
We ate at some place country, I can't remember where but Shelly had gizzards I remember that much. Soon the talk turned to us again and how the couple could help.
" Justin every year our family does something a little different at Christmas, you see we all already have everything we can use, in the way of things ya know,so a few years ago we all started pitching all the money that we would normally spend on gifts for each other and we give it away. To some needy family ya know, well this year we want you guys to have it. We know you need it and we just want to sow a seed with you. We know you all are gonna do big things. It would make us very happy if you'd accept it."
I could feel my pulse quicken as my "monster" stirred, hungry and ready to be fed. Shelly squirmed in her chair and I was afraid she might vomit with anticipation. We began to try and move things along so we could get out of there. The old man and woman wanted us to have dessert but we begged off, he walked me to the car and gave me an envelope. I thanked him and put it in the inside breast pocket of my jacket. When I got in the car Shelly had already taken off her shoes and panty hose. I was a little turned on by her bare legs , the memory of this mornings sex but the "monster " wouldn't wait. Even as the restaurant door was closing I peeled away from the place as fast as our crippled little four cylinder would carry us. I pulled over a couple blocks away to call the dope boys and looked inside the envelope - it contained twenty crisp hundred dollar bills. We lay up getting high for a week until every penny was gone.
After that we did the church thing every chance we had. Finally getting serious enough about to plot out what church to hit next based on location. Once we hit two churches right next to each other in the same day. It never again payed like that first one but it always paid.
All good things must come to an end and the end of our story happened to be on Shelly's birthday. We had been getting high all day at the hotel and Shelly kept calling Ron Ron, the sister of the guy we bought crack from, who was pregnant. Shelly had just lost a baby a couple of months before and she really liked Ron Ron alot, anyway, so she decides we should go and get Ron Ron a baby shower gift. What the hell I say and we head to town, I am sitting in the car in the mall parking lot while Shelly goes in to "boost" something nice. I am smoking a rock and a little paranoid so I am already staring around when I see Shelly coming. She is so fucked up that she is not aware of the guy walking up fast behind her. Could be a security guy from inside, could be somebody we've burned but who ever he is I know we have got to get down. I start the motor, roll up to Shelly throwing her door open.
"Get in!"
She jumps in and I jam on the gas. The guy following her jumps in front of the car, his arms out in front of him like he is Superman and he can stop our forward motion with the power of the yellow sun. Instead he rolls over the hood and on up over the top as I go out backwards through the Burger King driveway, almost T-boning a police car when I pull into traffic. We pull every trick out of the bag but it seems every time we turn a corner their were two more cops. I look at Shelly and say,
" I don't know what you stole in there, Shel but this ain't got shit to do with that."
"Just pull over I'll tell 'em it was all me. Just pull over."
But I don't. I keep on driving and by the finish there were probably forty cars involved. Only when I was completely boxed in did I stop. I turn to her,
"I love you baby, I'll probably be gone for a year or so but I love you."
The cops run to the car with guns drawn. They didn't even ask my name they just cuff me and put me in the back seat of the nearest car. I see my picture on the dash computer along with a B.O.L.O for the car. I go straight to county. An hour or so later from my holding cell I hear Shelly shout
"I love you, Justin".
She can't see me but she knows I must still be there. We both had been here and done this before.
I went to prison for breaking or entering, taking all the charges so that Shelly might have another chance. She wrote me a few times but we never saw each other after that. We knew we were bad for each other. According to the lawyer who contacted my mother she finally had a couple of babies of her own. The lawyer said her mother was trying to adopt them, and they needed my permission because I was still legally her husband, and the children's father though there was no way I could have fathered them, the math isn't even close.
I'd like to see them though.
And Shelly.
But I won't.
Instead I'll sit back with a Knob Creek and Coke and think about the kids Shelly and I might have had together in a parallel world where the only monsters live under the bed,
and they aren't real.
Just something for mothers and fathers of special little kids to check for at bedtime.
Her name was Shelly and she was a troubled 18 year old from Birmingham. Her roots involved snake handling ministers for a mother and father, a childhood rape, and a nasty heroin addiction. I was the son of an Elder in the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, a natural alcoholic with a weakness for shooting cocaine and a frustrated poet. We met in a christian rehab where I had been sent by the courts and stayed on as a counselor after completing a year long program of bible studies, prayer and the troubling requirement of fasting at least one day week. I had been there for nearly two years when Shelly's mother delivered her kicking and screaming to the Grace Mission Bible Training Center. She was still too high to know that the next days only promise to her was that she was going to be dope sick, and it wouldn't be pretty.
The rehab was established at an old Baptist campgrounds with groups of cabins for males and females on opposite sides of the property, a large cafeteria, a few other out buildings, and a swimming pool. It was covered in trees and flowering bushes of all sorts. Deer, squirrel and other wildlife scampered about like a scene from Snow White. It was a picture of the Natural States beauty. I hated it. It was the opposite of where I would have chosen to be; I was more of an crumbling brick alleys and dark downtown bars kind of guy. I wore black suits and slick polished Stacy Adams and combed my hair into a D.A. though the style was more than half a century in the grave. The dust clung to my clothes and dulled my shoes, the heat was unbearable, and my allergies made me miserable.
It was a pretty tough life-style for a bunch of dope fiends turned Disciples of Christ but I found a sort of grey area to live in and I really had been clean longer than I had ever been, and that was true for many others who had come from all across the country to try anything next to kick dope as well.
On the other hand the program itself smelled a little bit like a hustle, especially to a guy like me. They would send out these mailers each month with needs lists for things like dried beans, toilet paper or pick-up trucks and pleas for financial assistance. They put together teams of people to go and "share" at churches or sometimes take over complete worship services, preaching and all. That's where I came in, I was a natural, my fathers son, lucky enough to remember most anything I read, including the Bible, and a performer at heart. I preached my ass off. In return the authorities over me at Grace allowed me a wider grey area than they afforded most staff.
Oddly enough just a few weeks before Shelly's arrival, one of my best friends from high school became a resident of the program, he was a repeater so he knew the deal pretty well and I felt comfortable enough talking to him about my likes and dislikes concerning the lay of the land. He and I were walking to the cafeteria that doubled as a worship center when my future wife was literally dragged from her mothers Lincoln Continental, we watched wide eyed a moment as she cursed God, her mother, and the entire state of Arkansas. She was small but built well and wore torn Levi's and a dark baby doll T. Spittle flew from her mouth as she uttered phrases that would make old school sailors cheeks burn firetruck red. I was in love.
Or at least that's what I turned and told my old school mate, along with a promise that I would have her for my own. Two weeks later having run off together we were married in a hastily thrown together wedding including her in a white gown, me in my best suit and both sets of our parents in the Church of God on 6 and 1/2 street in the Northeast Arkansas town where my mother still lives.
I was almost twenty years older than Shelly but that didn't seem to trouble her mother, neither the fact that we had just met. "We will have the rest of our lives to get to know each other" I told my mother-in-law. I never guessed for a second just how crazy Shelly's mother was, how crazy Shelly was, or that her mother was relieved to see Shelly gone from Alabama and no longer her responsibility. Sometimes I am slow to put together the angles on a certain thing. This time I was just plain dumb.
Everything seemed to go well at first. I was lucky enough to get a great job as a wielder in a place that made railroad cars, Shelly was working cleaning houses for a lady who owned a service, and we moved into a small but adequate apartment. We spent our wedding night in the new place, interrupted occasionally by twitching people with hungry eyes asking for "the old man". It didn't take genius to figure out we had moved into a place where the former tenant had sold methamphetamine. Considering the age difference between my new bride and myself, I didn't need the distraction. It was the next morning that was the real shocker though, at about dawn another knock on the door. I just shouted through the door that the "old man" didn't live there anymore. After a couple of desperate sounding questions, this guy left and I returned to bed. Less than a half hour later another knock, and I lost my cool.
"We just moved in and the old man ain't here", I shouted.
" Greene County Sheriffs Department- Open the door", came the reply.
Another harbinger of what lay ahead for me. Again I was oblivious, deeply in lust and happy to be free of the constraints of the Grace Mission Bible Training Center. It seems that the last visitor had broken out of jail and planned to lay low at his dealers house until he could move on. Someone had seen him outside that morning and called the Sheriff's Department. My felony record and a naked girl who, judging by her looks, may or may not be the age of legal consent caused me more than a few uncomfortable moments before the khaki clad gentlemen with large handguns decided to leave us alone to enjoy the pleasures of matrimony.
My two years clean time was already shot, the only thing I couldn't resist was temptation. I began to snort lines off wielding hoods at work with some of the guys who had been there a while. I kept it a secret from Shelly who quit her job after my first paycheck and decided suddenly to live a life of domestic bliss.
One afternoon late when I got home from work I was struck with the most overpowering sweet smell. Like a hothouse had puked in my living room. Floral overload. 'What the hell?', I thought and then noticed Shelly slumped over on the couch, a dishrag wadded in her hand, and maybe a half a dozen air freshener aerosol cans scattered across the floor at her feet. I was angry. Stupid, I will admit considering my own aforementioned weakness, but I shouted at her to get up and get in the car. She was startled, not quite yet clear-headed, but she did as I said looking a little frightened about what I might have in mind. I peeled out from the driveway and headed straight away to the state line. I bought a half a gallon of whiskey, a case of beer for her and maybe twenty dollars worth of scratch off lotto tickets. She looked at me like I was Santa Claus. From there we made a looping out of the way circle back home stopping in Jonesboro for crack cocaine and Dilated. I was her personal Jesus- having delivered her from boredom and sobriety, and restored her to her former glorious junky self.
I lost my job two days later. The apartment lasted maybe another month.
We used all day everyday. We drank from the time we woke up until the time we went to sleep. Often keeping a drink on the nightstand of the shitty little hotel rooms that we stayed in just in case we woke in the night. We used cocaine, heroin, pills of all sorts and we smoked weed. We shoplifted. We lied. We broke into homes and, of course, we tricked. Most of the time I would wait in the bathroom and when she would bring in the john I would rob them but sometimes we would go to the dealer and she would go inside to cop. I would wait chewing my fingernails for the twenty minutes or so she'd be inside and then start the engine as soon as she'd come out the door. We would race back to the room to get high, neither if us caring about the things we did. In between hustling and coping we would get into terrible fights, shouting at the top of our lungs, sometimes worse. Shelly was terribly jealous.
During this time, dark as it we was, we began to love each other dearly. We were the same, and we had never experienced anything like that before. Both of us carried such a heavy sadness that we could not stand to feel, we went to the most outrageous extremes not to. Yet here we were, falling in love in a way that only the very young and the deeply mad could understand.
Our adventures grew more and more bold and we were involved in high speed pursuits. Shelly would drive the "getaway" car and I would steal from businesses often in broad daylight. Shelly was night blind and was suppose to wear thick glasses but would not. Once while being pursued by police in the evening I literally had to talk her through the chase as she could not see the roads until we blew past them. We kept running and with sirens and lights flashing our pursuers were relentless. Shell turned and looked at me a huge smile on her face,
"We're Bonnie and Clyde".
She was nuts, like I said.
"Okay Bonnie kill the lights, don't touch the brakes and when I say so pull up as far as you can into a driveway".
She did and we got away but after that night I began to have serious doubts about our future as snatch and grab guys. The water pump on the car was going out and we had damaged a wheel running over a curb. The car wouldn't hold up and our luck was running thin. Sometimes we would just drive around looking for small pawnable stuff in carports, or a bright red gas jug. We didn't pay for anything but dope, and a five gallon gas lick never went by, without us taking advantage. Just before Halloween we were driving around like this when the car began to get hot. We were losing a lot of water from the bad pump and the start and stop driving we did on these missions in particular made it hard for the car to maintain a temperature that wouldn't damage the heads without stopping often and letting the engine cool and adding water. It was about time for just such a pit stop when I saw one of those huge inflatable bouncy houses like people rent for children's parties in front of a church packed with cars and a sign out front that read "Fall Festival". I told her to pull in hoping to hit someone up for a few bucks while I got water. When we parked I could see that they were eating so I thought we could probably eat too.
" Think we could get some water?, we've just driven into town from southern Alabama and the Lords allowed us to be tested the entire trip".
"Sure thing", the kind older guy said, "What brought you guys here"?
"We were missionaries involved with an faith based rehab center for the desperate and the hopeless. There were some issues and we decided to come back here; I'm from here."
Shelly was still sitting in the car. She never really like the soft con, didn't feel like she was very good at it. When it came to straight talking someone out of the money, the choir was mine.
" To be honest" I went on, "we've had some real car problems as you can see, caused my gas mileage to be poor, and we're broke. Thank the Lord in Heaven though, He delivered us here just like we asked him too. One more thing if I could ask, we haven't eaten a thing since early this morning do you think my wife might get one of those burgers? I am fine but I know she's hungry though she'd never say so".
"Well sure , sure you guys come on in here and join us won't you. We'd be happy to have you join us".
He walked on over toward the church where they were all gathered to eat, I got back in the car to tell Shelly what had happened.
"I don't want to eat ", she said, " I'm not hungry".
" Goddammit Shelly I don't care how messed up you are, or how hungry you are, I want you to get your pretty little ass in there and help me work this shit. We can eat and that guy will probably give us twenty bucks when we get done. Lets go."
Reluctantly she came in with me, the man I had spoke to was sitting at a table with his wife and two empty chairs. They had already made our plates.
"So tell me a little about this place where you guys came from", he asked. Genuinely interested.
I explained to him about the mission of the rehab, changing only where it was located. I told him that while I believed in what they were doing, there had been some sexual sins committed at the leadership levels and that I began to be uncomfortable and prayed for guidance. Most of the details I had given him were true but I changed the facts just enough to suit my needs.
" I was reading my Bible one night after diligent prayer", I said "the story of the demon possessed man from Mark I believe, can't be sure because, as you know the story is told in all the synoptic gospels", with just enough confusion so as not to sound canned but also theo-scholarly as I used the phrase "synoptic gospels".
"You know the story I am sure -the man that lived in the places of the dead, and cut himself. When Christ asked him his name, he replied 'I am legion for we are many'. Then the demons are cast out into the pigs and the pigs jump from the cliff".
I was in control, it was a subject I had used from the pulpit many times, a good parallel to people who have the demon addiction and are being delivered from it. In the old days it always had them reaching for their wallets. Such is the power of the word. I could tell by their expressions that he and his wife were similarly entranced, so I went in for the big finish,
"What a lot of people don't really pay attention to, and what God shared with me through His living, breathing word that night was what happened next - the man so utterly relieved to be free of the demons, so joyous to be loosed from the death and the hurting of his life wanted to go with Jesus, wanted to hop in that boat with Jesus and the others and serve Him. But Jesus, had another plan" I am talking in my deep preachers voice now, channeling my father and that booming bass voice that had me squirming on those hard wooden pews of my youth, afraid to die. Afraid of Hell. " Jesus surely moved by the conversion of this man told the formerly demon possessed man 'No, I want you to go home and tell the people there what God has done for you'. People at nearby tables are looking over now, I sense I am moving others in the room as well, "and that is my calling as well I have come back here to show the people who knew the old me that that guy is dead, that God Himself has changed me, to tell people who never knew me what God" I stretch God out into a near three syllable word, " has done in my life".
It takes a moment for the couple sitting across from Shelly and myself to speak, for them to even regain their thoughts - then suddenly a wide happy smile spreads across their faces and the man stands and stretches out a hand to shake mine. They are pleased to see the faith that they have, is in a Deity powerful enough to change lives. They don't know that with me, it didn't take.
"We would be pleased to have you come worship with us tomorrow if you would. Of course we'd want to get you a hotel room for the night and put some gas in your car too".
"We would be honored to join you. And thanks for your help I felt like the Lord was leading me here for a reason."
They took us to one of the nicer hotels around, paid for two nights, and gave me thirty bucks. We drove straight to a trap house and bought some crack. Since we already had a room in the sleazy hotel that was much closer to the dope part of town we sold the card key, and room too. The next morning I ran out and made some waffles at the Motel 6 put them in a take out box I already had, swung by and got Shelly some hydrocodones so she wouldn't get sick before it was all over and went back to the room. When I woke her Shelly gobbled up the pain pills, picked at the waffle and bitched about going back to the church.
"What if they figured out already. What if they know".
She didn't really care about that so much as she knew it would be three or four hours before we'd get high again. The hydros really would just help her maintain, when me and Shelly got high we liked to be all the way high. I was shaving and pissed because I couldn't have a drink. They would smell it for sure.
"Goddammit Shelly get a freakin' dress on, you want to wait all fuckin' day for a trick or something to steal? It's Sunday in Jonesboro Arkansas this is gonna be a good lick and there ain't shit else going on."
She threw an ashtray at me but it wasn't even close so I just went about my business and she started to get dressed. She was such a beautiful woman that I paused shaving long enough to watch her strip down to nothing while she grumbled about pulling accessories out of different bags and suitcases that I had brought in from the car. Even though I was in a hurry I turned and smiled my most brilliant come hither smile at her. She cursed me but when I pulled her to me and kissed her leaving shaving cream on her face she laughed and we made love like old people driving. Reckless and with abandon.
Thirty minutes later we were at the church in time for Sunday school, barely. In class I fairly took over, and after I was asked to share my testimony for the mornings message. When I finished I understood what Mick Jagger must feel like at the end of a concert. When I walked from the pulpit towards the back door nearly everyone I passed pushed money into my hands as I shook theirs. Shelly had been crying through the whole thing- a special talent of hers, and these people loved us. The couple that had invited us asked us to lunch and we accepted even though we already had enough money for a real cool party.
We ate at some place country, I can't remember where but Shelly had gizzards I remember that much. Soon the talk turned to us again and how the couple could help.
" Justin every year our family does something a little different at Christmas, you see we all already have everything we can use, in the way of things ya know,so a few years ago we all started pitching all the money that we would normally spend on gifts for each other and we give it away. To some needy family ya know, well this year we want you guys to have it. We know you need it and we just want to sow a seed with you. We know you all are gonna do big things. It would make us very happy if you'd accept it."
I could feel my pulse quicken as my "monster" stirred, hungry and ready to be fed. Shelly squirmed in her chair and I was afraid she might vomit with anticipation. We began to try and move things along so we could get out of there. The old man and woman wanted us to have dessert but we begged off, he walked me to the car and gave me an envelope. I thanked him and put it in the inside breast pocket of my jacket. When I got in the car Shelly had already taken off her shoes and panty hose. I was a little turned on by her bare legs , the memory of this mornings sex but the "monster " wouldn't wait. Even as the restaurant door was closing I peeled away from the place as fast as our crippled little four cylinder would carry us. I pulled over a couple blocks away to call the dope boys and looked inside the envelope - it contained twenty crisp hundred dollar bills. We lay up getting high for a week until every penny was gone.
After that we did the church thing every chance we had. Finally getting serious enough about to plot out what church to hit next based on location. Once we hit two churches right next to each other in the same day. It never again payed like that first one but it always paid.
All good things must come to an end and the end of our story happened to be on Shelly's birthday. We had been getting high all day at the hotel and Shelly kept calling Ron Ron, the sister of the guy we bought crack from, who was pregnant. Shelly had just lost a baby a couple of months before and she really liked Ron Ron alot, anyway, so she decides we should go and get Ron Ron a baby shower gift. What the hell I say and we head to town, I am sitting in the car in the mall parking lot while Shelly goes in to "boost" something nice. I am smoking a rock and a little paranoid so I am already staring around when I see Shelly coming. She is so fucked up that she is not aware of the guy walking up fast behind her. Could be a security guy from inside, could be somebody we've burned but who ever he is I know we have got to get down. I start the motor, roll up to Shelly throwing her door open.
"Get in!"
She jumps in and I jam on the gas. The guy following her jumps in front of the car, his arms out in front of him like he is Superman and he can stop our forward motion with the power of the yellow sun. Instead he rolls over the hood and on up over the top as I go out backwards through the Burger King driveway, almost T-boning a police car when I pull into traffic. We pull every trick out of the bag but it seems every time we turn a corner their were two more cops. I look at Shelly and say,
" I don't know what you stole in there, Shel but this ain't got shit to do with that."
"Just pull over I'll tell 'em it was all me. Just pull over."
But I don't. I keep on driving and by the finish there were probably forty cars involved. Only when I was completely boxed in did I stop. I turn to her,
"I love you baby, I'll probably be gone for a year or so but I love you."
The cops run to the car with guns drawn. They didn't even ask my name they just cuff me and put me in the back seat of the nearest car. I see my picture on the dash computer along with a B.O.L.O for the car. I go straight to county. An hour or so later from my holding cell I hear Shelly shout
"I love you, Justin".
She can't see me but she knows I must still be there. We both had been here and done this before.
I went to prison for breaking or entering, taking all the charges so that Shelly might have another chance. She wrote me a few times but we never saw each other after that. We knew we were bad for each other. According to the lawyer who contacted my mother she finally had a couple of babies of her own. The lawyer said her mother was trying to adopt them, and they needed my permission because I was still legally her husband, and the children's father though there was no way I could have fathered them, the math isn't even close.
I'd like to see them though.
And Shelly.
But I won't.
Instead I'll sit back with a Knob Creek and Coke and think about the kids Shelly and I might have had together in a parallel world where the only monsters live under the bed,
and they aren't real.
Just something for mothers and fathers of special little kids to check for at bedtime.
Monday, April 9, 2012
A New Poem
He wasn't
exactly
a hustler
but he had
an easy way
with women
and a hard
time with whiskey
and told a
funny joke.
He never
ever chased them
or even thought...
Sometimes
in the bars they'd
slide on over
and fall
in love with
the words
that he spoke.
With the poems
about other
women.
He would sit
and talk and smile
in that
way that he had.
Later, sometimes,
he would take them
to their beds
but it was
only the booze that
he cared for.
The next night
would bring a different
bar, another girl,
a new poem.
exactly
a hustler
but he had
an easy way
with women
and a hard
time with whiskey
and told a
funny joke.
He never
ever chased them
or even thought...
Sometimes
in the bars they'd
slide on over
and fall
in love with
the words
that he spoke.
With the poems
about other
women.
He would sit
and talk and smile
in that
way that he had.
Later, sometimes,
he would take them
to their beds
but it was
only the booze that
he cared for.
The next night
would bring a different
bar, another girl,
a new poem.
Easy To Be The Poem
It was so easy
to be the poem.
To be the
small town
big family
boy flying
kites in
lonesome
cotton fields.
It was
easy to be
the poem.
To be
the happy man
fresh with love,
in love with
the girl
he met in college
the mother
of children
adored.
So very easy
to be
the poem.
Harder now
it seems
to be the poet.
If the Delta fields
were lonesome
then the grey
city sidewalks
are lonely.
Harder.
The haunting
taunting
memories of
painful separations
foggy flip
stomach mornings-
head pounding-
in line with other
stinking tramps
full of doubt
about the words
that I write.
So much
harder
to be the poet.
The days
spent asking
strangers to reject.
Nights filled
with crumpled pages
and a long slow
dance with
pain and sadness.
And bourbon and dope.
Harder
to be the poet
than the
poem.
to be the poem.
To be the
small town
big family
boy flying
kites in
lonesome
cotton fields.
It was
easy to be
the poem.
To be
the happy man
fresh with love,
in love with
the girl
he met in college
the mother
of children
adored.
So very easy
to be
the poem.
Harder now
it seems
to be the poet.
If the Delta fields
were lonesome
then the grey
city sidewalks
are lonely.
Harder.
The haunting
taunting
memories of
painful separations
foggy flip
stomach mornings-
head pounding-
in line with other
stinking tramps
full of doubt
about the words
that I write.
So much
harder
to be the poet.
The days
spent asking
strangers to reject.
Nights filled
with crumpled pages
and a long slow
dance with
pain and sadness.
And bourbon and dope.
Harder
to be the poet
than the
poem.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
The Lowest Time
Baby's in the
bathroom, fixing
her hair. I smoke
yesterdays butts.
My head pounding
and heart sick.
I pretend to read.
My baby girl
calls out "White Boy".
I help her fasten
the cheap necklace
that I got her
all those lows ago.
She pretends to smile.
Reaching towards
her reflection,
I take the last
of a bottle of gin
and toast our love.
She smells like
dollar store perfume
and resignation.
We dance an
awkward little dance
a little stumbly
a little sad
and she says
she has to go.
So I pick up my
book and she
puts on her shoes
and I'll wait for
my Baby to come home.
bathroom, fixing
her hair. I smoke
yesterdays butts.
My head pounding
and heart sick.
I pretend to read.
My baby girl
calls out "White Boy".
I help her fasten
the cheap necklace
that I got her
all those lows ago.
She pretends to smile.
Reaching towards
her reflection,
I take the last
of a bottle of gin
and toast our love.
She smells like
dollar store perfume
and resignation.
We dance an
awkward little dance
a little stumbly
a little sad
and she says
she has to go.
So I pick up my
book and she
puts on her shoes
and I'll wait for
my Baby to come home.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Grandma's Sunday Dinners
On a concrete porch
painted grey like
all the others in
the small country
town,
on a creaking
porch swing
a small boy in
wrinkled Sunday
clothes sits with
his whiskey breath
Grandpa who
never goes
to church,
but naps outside
instead
and listens to hymns
roll over new
Smoke pours out
as he hands it back.
"Shootin' all them bandits",
Grandpa says.
The boy
leans closer
and smiles,
and his Grandma
fastens her faded
apron and takes
chicken and dressing
from the oven
inside.
painted grey like
all the others in
the small country
town,
on a creaking
porch swing
a small boy in
wrinkled Sunday
clothes sits with
his whiskey breath
Grandpa who
never goes
to church,
but naps outside
instead
and listens to hymns
roll over new
green crops.
The boy hands
the man a shiny
silver pistol that
fires red paper rolls
of snapping
pop caps,
his favorite toy.
The man holds
a lit Winston cigarette
to the metal barrels tip.
as he hands it back.
"Shootin' all them bandits",
Grandpa says.
The boy
leans closer
and smiles,
and his Grandma
fastens her faded
apron and takes
chicken and dressing
from the oven
inside.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Eating Grapes in a Mexican Jail
Bacchus came
and sat with me
on a bench;
a bottle in
each hand.
We laughed
and ate
chili dogs
and Twinkies
and smacking
our lips
guzzled down
cool white wine.
We rolled
cigarettes
and brushed
loose tobacco
from our laps,
scratching
a pointed ear
he said "just
like the hill
people do it
back home".
Next morning
telling
dirty jokes
over yesterdays
dirty dishes
scattered
across a flea
market table
with one leg shorter
than the others,
we rest
comfortable in
each others
company while
a nameless girl
slips guiltily
from the spare
bedroom,
hair in disarray.
Slapping the
table I let
loose a howl
and Bacchus
tells the story
again of
eating grapes
in a mexican jail.
and sat with me
on a bench;
a bottle in
each hand.
We laughed
and ate
chili dogs
and Twinkies
and smacking
our lips
guzzled down
cool white wine.
We rolled
cigarettes
and brushed
loose tobacco
from our laps,
scratching
a pointed ear
he said "just
like the hill
people do it
back home".
Next morning
telling
dirty jokes
over yesterdays
dirty dishes
scattered
across a flea
market table
with one leg shorter
than the others,
we rest
comfortable in
each others
company while
a nameless girl
slips guiltily
from the spare
bedroom,
hair in disarray.
Slapping the
table I let
loose a howl
and Bacchus
tells the story
again of
eating grapes
in a mexican jail.
Monday, March 19, 2012
On a Puddle of Water
I was stoned,
in love
a thousand rains
ago.
Hundreds of
dark clouds
opening,
sunlight
creeping through.
Thick as a brick
skin now,
face set sure as
concrete.
Wrinkles,
eyes weighed
heavy with bags,
and moles and
other skin things,
teeth bad,
and a storm
is stirring, but I
just might love
a barroom girl
Pretty as sunlight
on a puddle,
so I go on.
Pretty as sunlight
on a puddle of water
I am stoned in love
so I go on
taking chances
on sunshine
on late Spring
afternoons.
in love
a thousand rains
ago.
Hundreds of
dark clouds
opening,
sunlight
creeping through.
Thick as a brick
skin now,
face set sure as
concrete.
Wrinkles,
eyes weighed
heavy with bags,
and moles and
other skin things,
teeth bad,
and a storm
is stirring, but I
just might love
a barroom girl
Pretty as sunlight
on a puddle,
so I go on.
Pretty as sunlight
on a puddle of water
I am stoned in love
so I go on
taking chances
on sunshine
on late Spring
Monday, March 12, 2012
This Mornings Afternoon
The tired man,
old looking,
sits on a damp
park bench,
scatters
broken and crushed
saltines
with great gnarled hands,
boxers hands,
huge .
The small
brown birds
swoop and jump
thankful for
an easy meal.
Their gibberish
like
jealous little sister
protesting brothers
bedtime hour.
A punch drunk
smile spreads across
the thick chested
man's face.
He is transported
to days before
smelly gyms
and the soft thuds
of overworked heavy bags.
To years before
his first kiss
of mildewed canvas.
Back to days
at the park with
his immigrant
grandfather
casting breadcrumbs
carelessly on
warm summer afternoons.
old looking,
sits on a damp
park bench,
scatters
broken and crushed
saltines
with great gnarled hands,
boxers hands,
huge .
The small
brown birds
swoop and jump
thankful for
an easy meal.
Their gibberish
like
jealous little sister
protesting brothers
bedtime hour.
A punch drunk
smile spreads across
the thick chested
man's face.
He is transported
to days before
smelly gyms
and the soft thuds
of overworked heavy bags.
To years before
his first kiss
of mildewed canvas.
Back to days
at the park with
his immigrant
grandfather
casting breadcrumbs
carelessly on
warm summer afternoons.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Bar
Gravel roads
hunker down
between
row crops
and drainage
ditches lined
with cattails
and Pabst Blue Ribbon
beer cans
rusty at the tops.
Strange birds
run like chore boy
bandits away
from their nests.
The Bar,
an old share-cropper
bungalow,
sits hunched over
from the weight
of the years
and the memories.
The patrons
work for someone else
or draw a check
and spend days
drinking dollar cans
of bootleg beer.
A hand written
sign reads
"No Pot Smokin
or sellin",
but it is
okay if you
do it out by
the truck.
Gallon glass
jars offer
pigs feet or
pickled eggs,
and some days
The Bar
smells of charred
meat
cooked on a grill
made from a
30 gallon drum.
hunker down
between
row crops
and drainage
ditches lined
with cattails
and Pabst Blue Ribbon
beer cans
rusty at the tops.
Strange birds
run like chore boy
bandits away
from their nests.
The Bar,
an old share-cropper
bungalow,
sits hunched over
from the weight
of the years
and the memories.
The patrons
work for someone else
or draw a check
and spend days
drinking dollar cans
of bootleg beer.
A hand written
sign reads
"No Pot Smokin
or sellin",
but it is
okay if you
do it out by
the truck.
Gallon glass
jars offer
pigs feet or
pickled eggs,
and some days
The Bar
smells of charred
meat
cooked on a grill
made from a
30 gallon drum.
Manuscript
I have asked before, but I would like your help again, let me know your three favorite poems so that I can try and include them in the next book.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Even
The rain begins
it's sexy
snare drum
dance on the
sleeping bag.
Too late
to find a
better spot,
too early
to get up
I drag bedroll
and backpack
and smelly yellow
construction boots
into a doorway.
Sleeping as a
question mark
curled in it's
too small space
for a little
while more.
What kind
of person am
I
that I would
choose this?
Only a moment
later
the crazies
begin cursing,
singing,
and praising
GOD.
Good God
won't they
shut up?
My socks
scum stuck
to my feet,
shit stained drawers,
my bottle empty,
and pipe busted
I start the day
even.
When you
live the streets
you just got
to make it
happen.
it's sexy
snare drum
dance on the
sleeping bag.
Too late
to find a
better spot,
too early
to get up
I drag bedroll
and backpack
and smelly yellow
construction boots
into a doorway.
Sleeping as a
question mark
curled in it's
too small space
for a little
while more.
What kind
of person am
I
that I would
choose this?
Only a moment
later
the crazies
begin cursing,
singing,
and praising
GOD.
Good God
won't they
shut up?
My socks
scum stuck
to my feet,
shit stained drawers,
my bottle empty,
and pipe busted
I start the day
even.
When you
live the streets
you just got
to make it
happen.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
like a little girl
the ghost of us
is the only thing
older than the
red and yellow
thai take-out
containers
it seems
dead on
the drink
in my hand
gone
and the ice
too far away
so i pour
straight from
the bottle
and sink farther
into the past
drinking
alone
to be with you
is the only thing
older than the
red and yellow
thai take-out
containers
spilling over
and around
the garbage can
with its living line
of ants
that separate
living room from
kitchen
the stereo
that i found
on the side
of the road
in sherwood
plays a
van morrison cover
and even though
your eyes were blueand even though
it seems
dead on
the drink
in my hand
gone
and the ice
too far away
so i pour
straight from
the bottle
and sink farther
into the past
drinking
alone
to be with you
Another Poem for my Birthday
That's right, remarkably I got a second poem for my birthday. This one written by Betty Heidelberger, a wonderfully dear friend and writer.
Message to a Homeless Poet
You should not waste your power or your gift
Let poems explode like thunder from the skies.
Reserve the right to talk about your life
The trailer parks, the hookers, and the wine.
You have the touch, as addicts often do.
Remember Poe, his Raven and his pipe
The madman dreams, distraught, he wrote them down
these were his soul, the rudder for his life.
You are a poet, wear your badge with pride
No matter what bad choices you have made.
It hurts my heart to see you often down
Don't give your power to a phantom dream
We have all sinned and guilt is just a crutch
To break to cinders in a violent wind.
Message to a Homeless Poet
You should not waste your power or your gift
Let poems explode like thunder from the skies.
Reserve the right to talk about your life
The trailer parks, the hookers, and the wine.
You have the touch, as addicts often do.
Remember Poe, his Raven and his pipe
The madman dreams, distraught, he wrote them down
these were his soul, the rudder for his life.
You are a poet, wear your badge with pride
No matter what bad choices you have made.
It hurts my heart to see you often down
Don't give your power to a phantom dream
We have all sinned and guilt is just a crutch
To break to cinders in a violent wind.
When I think
When I think
about my childhood
I think of
Saturday mornings
and The Super Friends
and three channels
that we changed
with a pair of pliers,
because the knob
had come off
the television
and got lost.
When I think
of my Mom
I think of
tucking in
hugs and kisses
and french toast
for six kids
made with
an entire loaf of
Wonders.
When I think
of my Dad
I think about
the trips down
gravel roads and
Whistle Bridge
and learning to
shoot guns with
open sights.
When I remember my
brothers and sisters
I smile
and recall
freeze tag,
and softball
and all of us playing
together in the yard.
When I think
of you,
when I drink
too much,
I can only recall
the sadness
of losing
you.
about my childhood
I think of
Saturday mornings
and The Super Friends
and three channels
that we changed
with a pair of pliers,
because the knob
had come off
the television
and got lost.
When I think
of my Mom
I think of
tucking in
hugs and kisses
and french toast
for six kids
made with
an entire loaf of
Wonders.
When I think
of my Dad
I think about
the trips down
gravel roads and
Whistle Bridge
and learning to
shoot guns with
open sights.
When I remember my
brothers and sisters
I smile
and recall
freeze tag,
and softball
and all of us playing
together in the yard.
When I think
of you,
when I drink
too much,
I can only recall
the sadness
of losing
you.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
What this old thing?
I shoplifted this suit,
not lately,
maybe a couple of years ago.
I went into a Goodwill store
and saw it and thought
"Someday I'll need a suit,
if anyone ever wants to hear
me read, I'll need it."
So I shoplifted this suit,
from Goodwill.
I was broke and hungry,
on my way to shoplift
something to eat
at Kroger.
I somehow got distracted,
by the dream of having
something to say-
of being a writer,
a poet who reads
his words
to enamored crowds
and wins them forever over
with wit and charm,
and deep thoughts-
so I shoplifted this suit.
not lately,
maybe a couple of years ago.
I went into a Goodwill store
and saw it and thought
"Someday I'll need a suit,
if anyone ever wants to hear
me read, I'll need it."
So I shoplifted this suit,
from Goodwill.
I was broke and hungry,
on my way to shoplift
something to eat
at Kroger.
I somehow got distracted,
by the dream of having
something to say-
of being a writer,
a poet who reads
his words
to enamored crowds
and wins them forever over
with wit and charm,
and deep thoughts-
so I shoplifted this suit.
Teen Redheads and Better Days
Walking the dozen
or so
blocks between
breakfast and
coffee,
killing the day
that comes
before the
library opens it's
loving arms,
I search the faces
in windshields
and those that
frown and hurry
down cement paths.
Looking for
the poem.
Swollen mother clouds
just for a moment
open up and allow
a late winter sun
to peek as well,
and that is when I see you.
It is not you,
of course,
this girl is only
beginning life,
all of her happiness
and heartache,
still just beyond
the tips of her
teen age fingers.
But her red hair
ablaze
in the morning light,
and untamed smile
remind me of you
and the carefree
days of spring.
Passing her by
I stop and look
at my reflection
in a window;
no more punk
haircuts,
or parachute pants.
Just a middle age man,
with unquenchable
memories of days
when my greatest
fears and follies
lay just out of reach.
or so
blocks between
breakfast and
coffee,
killing the day
that comes
before the
library opens it's
loving arms,
I search the faces
in windshields
and those that
frown and hurry
down cement paths.
Looking for
the poem.
Swollen mother clouds
just for a moment
open up and allow
a late winter sun
to peek as well,
and that is when I see you.
It is not you,
of course,
this girl is only
beginning life,
all of her happiness
and heartache,
still just beyond
the tips of her
teen age fingers.
But her red hair
ablaze
in the morning light,
and untamed smile
remind me of you
and the carefree
days of spring.
Passing her by
I stop and look
at my reflection
in a window;
no more punk
haircuts,
or parachute pants.
Just a middle age man,
with unquenchable
memories of days
when my greatest
fears and follies
lay just out of reach.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
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