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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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