tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69358759575853355822024-03-21T17:51:51.020-07:00Skip the EggsSame blog: third name- I can't help myself. Same kind of stuff; a little poetry, a little prose, a little drunkalogue. Some adult themes, and language. Good Times.Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.comBlogger252125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-50610891569373238792017-12-04T08:09:00.000-08:002017-12-04T08:09:09.150-08:00BloomI didn't even know<br />
it made flowers<br />
when first I saw<br />
it bloom.<br />
<br />
It was just<br />
blind luck that<br />
I found it,<br />
in a pile of garbage<br />
most people<br />
walking straight by.<br />
<br />
On an overcast<br />
morning, after<br />
walking the dogs,<br />
and coffee<br />
with Merry,<br />
<br />
I stepped out<br />
under wide-armed<br />
Live Oaks and<br />
into a South Austin<br />
warm breeze,<br />
<br />
I saw the beauty<br />
of what it had become<br />
and I thought,<br />
<br />
I didn't even know<br />
it made flowers.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-984934485189827062017-04-13T15:49:00.001-07:002017-04-13T15:49:58.512-07:00On Huntington Avenue<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
The Gee St. Motel </div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
was the sort<br />
of place that<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br />police cruised<br />checking plates<br />when a car<br />had gone missing<br />from the nicer<br />part of town.</span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Carla was Queen<br />
and she loved<br />
me<br />
but Gold Grill<br />
Daphne<br />
was her man.<br />
The same one<br />
that took<br />
Big Fish's time<br />
right before the<br />
Fish died.<br />
Daphne belly up.<br />
But that ain't<br />
happened then<br />
and Carla thought<br />
I's special<br />
and smoked<br />
all her dope<br />
with me.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Sometimes I<br />
stayed at the<br />
Motel with her</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
sometimes with<br />
Derek For Real's<br />
baby momma<br />
next to JoJo's trap<br />
down the street</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
on Huntington Avenue.</div>
</div>
Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-40377542605047147472016-10-14T07:23:00.001-07:002016-10-14T07:23:12.727-07:00One voice talkingA cool breezy<br />
Saturday morning<br />
full of canibus<br />
and coffee,<br />
in shamrock<br />
printer boxers,<br />
I sit down<br />
to write,<br />
changing<br />
the music<br />
from Tom Waits<br />
to something<br />
by Bach,<br />
featuring cellos.<br />
<br />
<br />
I can't write to a song<br />
with lyrics.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-1352418457990336552016-05-24T10:05:00.002-07:002016-05-24T10:17:28.234-07:00Pin DropShe said,<br />
<br />
You're an ass,<br />
you know that?<br />
Look at you.<br />
You are a<br />
fifty year old<br />
man that wears<br />
skinny jeans and<br />
three pounds of<br />
stainless steel<br />
jewelry. You'd<br />
rather jerk-off<br />
to young tatted-up<br />
blue haired girls<br />
that read your<br />
poetry than fuck<br />
and you are<br />
living rent free<br />
in my spare room ...<br />
<br />
seriously ... <br />
<br />
an ass.<br />
You're gonna<br />
sit there all<br />
sad and tell me<br />
nobody loves you? ...<br />
that I don't love you?<br />
An ass I tell you,<br />
I am going to bed.<br />
<br />
Then she<br />
slammed the<br />
door.<br />
<br />
Things got<br />
real quiet.Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-11664679336292951322016-04-16T10:08:00.000-07:002016-05-23T10:44:17.121-07:00She knowsOnce she read<br />
to me,<br />
like story time<br />
only better, the<br />
most beautiful girl<br />
in the world.<br />
<br />
Something sad,<br />
and funny,<br />
quirky but good.<br />
She read of<br />
raindrops bruising<br />
flower petals.<br />
I watched her<br />
read, the way<br />
her lips shaped<br />
the words her<br />
expression framed<br />
each mood.<br />
<br />
She knows<br />
I love her.<br />
<br />
She watches me<br />
sometimes with<br />
eyes more wonderful<br />
than any seven<br />
things ever,<br />
present or past.<br />
She looks at me<br />
and her eyes that<br />
whisper passages<br />
in French about<br />
love making<br />
hold me rapt.<br />
I do not speak<br />
French but crave her<br />
attentions sans pudeur<br />
<br />
and she knows.<br />
<br />
A pretty girl took<br />
her away to sleep<br />
under electric blankets<br />
and watch movies<br />
about other times<br />
and loves.<br />
Chick porn I say,<br />
and she laughs<br />
tells the pretty girl<br />
that only<br />
porn is porn<br />
but chick flicks<br />
are great too.<br />
I begin writing<br />
this poem as<br />
they leave me.<br />
<br />
She knows no one<br />
will ever see it.<br />
<br />
I share her love<br />
with another and<br />
ours is the one held<br />
quiet as sin.<br />
I love her<br />
silent and secret.<br />
It is enough<br />
for me that<br />
<br />
she knows.Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-5567988681178033242016-04-16T10:07:00.000-07:002016-04-16T10:07:45.047-07:00WishesI wish you<br />
had money,<br />
she said<br />
pausing the<br />
Youtube<br />
beauty tutorial<br />
and smiled an<br />
apple extending<br />
smile tempting<br />
Grace.<br />
<br />
You mean you<br />
wish your<br />
sugar daddy<br />
wasn't some<br />
broke ass<br />
nobody knows<br />
him poet.<br />
<br />
I just know<br />
you'd buy me<br />
things<br />
if you had<br />
money.<br />
<br />
Yes was all<br />
he said,<br />
if I weren't<br />
a poet,<br />
silently implied.<br />
<br />
She sat Indian<br />
style in the living<br />
room floor,<br />
cut-off shorts and<br />
a Keep Austin<br />
Wierd tank top,<br />
practiced<br />
putting on<br />
midnight eyes<br />
and matte liquid<br />
lips made,<br />
it seemed,<br />
for kissing.<br />
<br />
And she was a woman.<br />
And she was art.<br />
<br />
An object of beauty.<br />
A being full of life.<br />
And he thought<br />
I wish I had money<br />
I'd write poems<br />
for you every night<br />
and you'd forever<br />
be art.Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-64851328600513188742016-04-16T10:06:00.001-07:002016-04-16T10:06:48.615-07:00 PREVIEW "The Death of Ethan Blue". PREVIEW "The Death of Ethan Blue".<br />
<br />
"I'll tell you something else, the goddamn academics and the good magazines, some of them knew how good my shit was. A lot of those guys loved my stuff, read it and loved it. They all cockblocked me - some of them jealous but most afraid of me. If I had been full of shit, some Bukowski wannabe, faking it, pretending then they'd have loved me. I kept it 100, when I get drunk, I get all the way drunk. When I tell about the smell of the barracks after breakfast in prison when the punks stayed back, its because I saw them motherfuckers falling in love with each other ... and god bless 'em. All I ever watched was my timecard , that was what was subject to change. People helped me, so what? I lived with women and let them buy my drinks and dinner. I wasn't a hustler, I didn't lie to those girls I loved them all. I was a Grinder, I went and got mine but those bastards were afraid the emperor had no clothes. That I had bullshitted them so much that I made them love my poetry. That somehow it was a trick. Oh and god forbid they be the first to like something great, something new. The cocksuckers. No man can be a prophet around here, haters is all. I'm a goddamn genius. Well, I guess I'm close as we got now."<br />
<br />
"I think you're tired Ethan, why don't you just lay down on the couch. I'll get you a blanket."<br />
Before she got back with the blanket he was passed out, she picked up his bottle put it in the kitchen, came back and pulled his boots off. She kissed his forehead, turned and wiping away a tear went to bed.Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-50931944778771445582016-04-16T09:55:00.000-07:002016-04-16T10:03:56.092-07:00Obituary <br />
<br />
He was a reckless drunk and hopeless in one breath, an idealist the next. I first saw him, leaned into a podium for stability, in the little pizza joint on Chester in Little Rock. He read poetry for half an hour maybe longer, weaving personal stories in between as he went. It was October 2013. He was soberish, which was a surprise; he was soulful and funny, which wasn’t. The adoring audience sat transfixed through his entire thing. They laughed at all the right things, and spoke in collective silence during the saddest parts.<br />
About two years later I saw him again. He was so drunk he couldn’t finish a thought as he tried to speak between poems, the poems themselves could be heard well enough despite his slurred speech, it was clear he'd done them over and over, his most polished set. His go to, nearly gone. Embarrassed fans started filing out after fifteen minutes as he fumbled and twisted his words into gibberish. Some stuck it out to the end, feeling guilty for watching, but—well, you never knew what might happen when The Outlaw Poet Ethan Blue was onstage. After the show, he they woke him at his table and helped carry him out, where they took him I don't know.<br />
Blue was a holy mess, his life a mix of the sublime and the horrific. By the time he died of a heart attack a couple of years ago the Arkansas native had written a large batch of enduring short stories and poetry and a novel, Hooker's, Ex-wives, and Other Lovers. The larger than life cult figure had also become the subject of colorful tales - some of them probably even true.<br />
And yet he remains today what he was all his wild, heartbreaking life: a Delta native half poet and part performance artist honored by peers and ardent fans but largely unknown in the mainstream. He never had a book deal with a major publisher. He was not a college graduate, didn't go about being a writer in the conventional way and was never much concerned with his career. He was never concerned with much of anything, in fact, but writing, touring, and hanging out with friends and families who had adopted him. That is how I knew him all that time ago. My mother brought him home and he lived with us off and on until a move to Austin separated us all. He stayed in Arkansas, and even for me and others that knew him a while, became half living and half legend.<br />
He loved paradox—living it and spreading it. Born into comfort if not riches, his father was an Elder in the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, he preferred the company of sinners, the poor and desperate and sometimes gave away what money he had. He was a lighthearted prankster who wrote some of the saddest poetry in the last half a century. He wrote about how precious it was to be alive yet spent a good deal of his life killing himself with drugs and alcohol. A kind of death cult grew up around him fed by stories and myth—some of his own making, some of his fans’, many of whom saw romance in his self-destruction. When he died, for me the most surprising thing was that he had lived so long.Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-29539379879189907482016-03-30T11:39:00.001-07:002016-03-30T12:04:47.165-07:00The Farm<div class="_1dwg" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.08px; padding: 12px 12px 0px;">
<div class="_5pbx userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="js_2g" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.38; overflow: hidden;">
<div style="display: inline;">
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />With a barely audible grunt, aching joints, and nagging singularity of purpose Alvis swung his legs over the side of the feather mattress where he had slept since his own father took a spell and went to live with an Indian woman who told fortunes and went down on men for a living. When he was a teen Alvis had thought that the witch put a spell on his pa or maybe had brewed up some kind of a potion to trick him. Uncle Roy had told him that his dad had seen things over there in Europe when he and a couple of the others from around town had gone over to fight the Nazi's. When he said Nazis it rhymed with hat trees and something about his voice made Alvis think of the old farmers and timber men who had served in that one. He had been proud that local men like his father had served well.<br />They were heroes.<br />They saved America.<br />The world. They had saved the farm.<br />So the boy and Roy worked the farm. The farm was constant and there was always work to be done with little time for whimsy. Alvis took comfort in that. All of these years later, Roy long was gone, mother and a wife passed, the consistency of farm life remained. This one thing, the relationship with her, the farm- it had been his entire life the most important thing, and lately his hope for a legacy. This was the first morning he had ever resented the farm for her selfish calls for attention.<br />Dressed and looking out the kitchen window as he filled the percolator with water he looked at the place, the fields , the crops and he was no longer attached. The difference went unnoticed in him, and everything went grey.<br />"For what, for who?" , he asked no one at all.<br />After starting coffee, Alvis crossed the large kitchen to sit at the table and wait. Just before pulling out his chair he raised his hand toward the dial of an old Zenith radio, then let it fall again, uncalled on to complete the near-daily task of tuning in the local country station.He listened instead to the hissing and sputtering of the percolator atop the gas stove. Most people used the electric ones now but Alvis was not a man who was comfortable with change.<br />After a cup, he made toast but nearly burned it, then carried it on a saucer to the table. It was still intact as he rinsed his cup and sat it on the window sill over the sink. A small dust devil twisted and moved across sandy dirt turn rows and he felt insulted by the wind itself. He was angered by the soil, fat and fertile. The farm was a tease who promised far more than she ever delivered. He pulled his cap from a peg as he went outside to work just like he always did. Coaxing her into fruition with sweat and wisdom earned with disappointment or a plodding success, it was his lot.</div>
</div>
</div>
Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-63774226432991953942016-01-24T05:50:00.002-08:002016-01-24T05:50:23.974-08:00His Poems<br />
The way<br />
he flicked gently<br />
open his late<br />
Grandfather's<br />
chunky Zippo-<br />
<br />
its finish worn<br />
and polished<br />
by the fine<br />
Delta dirt<br />
and overall<br />
pocket<br />
of a man<br />
who climbed<br />
daily<br />
on and off<br />
a red Farmall<br />
tractor-<br />
<br />
the way he<br />
drew deeply<br />
on the hand<br />
fashioned<br />
cigarette,<br />
breathing<br />
out a great cloud<br />
then still<br />
allowing the last<br />
slender bit<br />
of smoke to<br />
escape gently<br />
from his nostrils.<br />
<br />
It was<br />
the way he<br />
dropped his chin<br />
and pushed back<br />
his hair<br />
up and straight out<br />
and gave a<br />
well rehearsed<br />
cutting up of his eyes<br />
the way a<br />
boy might<br />
when he first<br />
wooed his<br />
mother.<br />
<br />
The women that<br />
he had been with,<br />
<br />
the drugs<br />
and the booze,<br />
and prisons<br />
and jails,<br />
<br />
and<br />
the women-<br />
<br />
this last one<br />
most of all.<br />
<br />
This was<br />
the tragedy<br />
he wrote.<br />
<br />
These were<br />
his poems.<br />
<br />
His work,<br />
then,<br />
that of recorder<br />
of the<br />
melancholy<br />
life<br />
he had created.Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-18234793941232673732016-01-13T11:02:00.002-08:002016-05-31T12:40:07.133-07:00I'd Never<div>
I remember</div>
<div>
once when</div>
<div>
I would never</div>
<div>
grow old,</div>
<div>
so many </div>
<div>
years ago </div>
<div>
now.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Just being grown</div>
<div>
seemed so</div>
<div>
many miles</div>
<div>
from that FHA</div>
<div>
house in Caraway</div>
<div>
on cemetery road.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That was Then,</div>
<div>
and Rumblefish,</div>
<div>
a full set of </div>
<div>
Worldbooks from</div>
<div>
1976, and a </div>
<div>
black and white</div>
<div>
set out back,</div>
<div>
beside my </div>
<div>
roll-away bed.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Life's lesson,</div>
<div>
love doesn't last</div>
<div>
and a marriage.</div>
<div>
A move, and </div>
<div>
a new home.</div>
<div>
I remember </div>
<div>
when Jonesboro</div>
<div>
seemed so large.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I remember</div>
<div>
when I </div>
<div>
could not die.</div>
<div>
I pulled back </div>
<div>
scarlet swirls </div>
<div>
and pushed </div>
<div>
them in again.</div>
<div>
I rode on top,</div>
<div>
outside of cars.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I carried </div>
<div>
my big brothers </div>
<div>
.22 pistol </div>
<div>
tucked in my </div>
<div>
waistband,</div>
<div>
the grip was </div>
<div>
small and branded</div>
<div>
with a buffalo. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Wind rushed</div>
<div>
through my hair, </div>
<div>
and dope </div>
<div>
through the rest,</div>
<div>
at some point then,</div>
<div>
feeling alone.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I remember</div>
<div>
finding a wife,</div>
<div>
building a home,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I remember </div>
<div>
when my daughters</div>
<div>
still spoke </div>
<div>
to me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I remember rehabs,</div>
<div>
and prisons, and</div>
<div>
life on the streets-</div>
<div>
a cardboard sign</div>
<div>
and spare change.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I remember.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I remember once,</div>
<div>
I would never grow old.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-57034439454066014642016-01-05T16:39:00.000-08:002016-01-05T16:39:59.818-08:00Open Campus KidsI want a burger<br />
from the Dog,<br />
with too much<br />
mustard and onions,<br />
and a Big K cola<br />
to wash it down.<br />
<br />
I want to stand<br />
around the side after<br />
and burn one<br />
with those people<br />
I used to go there<br />
with, the people<br />
from Nettleton High.<br />
<br />
I want to be teen<br />
sure<br />
about everything<br />
and nothing<br />
but just<br />
for a moment.<br />
<br />
Just for a little,<br />
I'd like to be young.Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-53290243467137546392015-12-09T12:20:00.000-08:002015-12-09T12:20:27.503-08:00Call Me a CabThey say<br />
that he walked<br />
naked<br />
into the desert <br />
and tried to climb<br />
onto the wing<br />
of a taxiing<br />
aircraft after success<br />
blew his mind.<br />
<br />
Hopper, I mean.<br />
<br />
What was the<br />
plane doing out there <br />
anyway?<br />
<br />
They say it made<br />
some top 5 list.<br />
Breakdowns.<br />
Hollywood.<br />
Go ahead and see.<br />
<br />
I thought they<br />
said taxi.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-35630641139707291882015-11-23T12:10:00.000-08:002015-11-23T12:10:43.709-08:00On SundaysThere is an angel<br />
in Long Island<br />
who prays for<br />
me like my<br />
mama always has.<br />
<br />
The wife of a<br />
poet friend<br />
with devils<br />
I guess just<br />
like mine.<br />
<br />
Demons of<br />
her own once,<br />
I'm told,<br />
then loosed.<br />
Her spirit burned<br />
bright driving<br />
shadows and<br />
darkness.<br />
<br />
Now they go<br />
to church together<br />
<br />
and this lady<br />
from up North<br />
in Long Island she<br />
prays for me<br />
<br />
on Sundays<br />
<br />
like my woman<br />
used to do<br />
before I fell<br />
from grace.<br />
<br />Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-5930630245224801292015-11-06T12:45:00.003-08:002015-11-06T12:45:25.576-08:00Hey man. Let me know if this works:<br />
<br />
One takes a pen and writes "once upon a time." Another takes a pen and writes "hungry." One writes on notebook paper, another writes on cardboard. Once in a while you come across a writer who has done both, and continues to do both. There is hunger in Justin Booth's poetry, hunger as real and as stark as Sharpie ink scrawled onto an old Grey Goose box lid. Poetry and hunger ought always to be married this way, one ought always to feed the other.Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-12169607963145194412015-11-03T15:35:00.002-08:002015-11-03T15:35:33.600-08:00haikuThis is not haiku<br />
but true prison poems are short,<br />
Only for the poor.Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-32668868785224539682015-10-21T09:50:00.000-07:002015-10-21T09:51:53.614-07:00BallparkThe leaves had turned, some early jumpers blew down the sidewalks, others congregating in corners whispering that Winter was near. Lucinda looked again at her friend and saw the lines in his face, his perfectly combed hair grey as this mornings sky. After a moment he went on.<br />
<br />
"I made his acquaintance early, he came for Gary Garrett when we were just boys. We used to walk over to the ball park after school, a bunch of us. You could climb up on the center field wall where the flag pole was ... we'd hold the rope- you know, the one used to raise the flag - jump from the wall and swing around and land again on the other side. Like pirates I guess, hell it was a small town".<br />
<br />
He smiled a sad smile without looking up. She knew Ethan as well as anyone, and she saw it coming. On rare occasions he would get just the right combination of booze and weed, the planets would align, and he would be real. Completely honest, naked of pretext, he would show no hint of the other, of "True Blue". She always took it as a sort of miracle, a message from the universe to her, these brief transformations from asshole to oracle.<br />
<br />
"Gary's daddy used to beat his ass. It was the first serious thing I ever knew about in my whole life. My first secret. We were in the 7th grade when Gary pulled his shirt up in the boys bathroom and showed me, told me about things worse than that, then made me swear not to tell. It made me want to throw up. Then it wasn't two weeks later it happened, when we walked to the ballpark after school that day. There were probably six or eight of us fooling around. Lots of times we'd spend an hour or so then each of us breaking off, or maybe in pairs, we'd walk on home. We'd been there swinging, whooping, forgetting anything but our pirate play. Taking swings in turn, all of us in line on that eight inch wide wall. It was thrilling, like flying or something. It wasn't really very dangerous though, you could let go half way out and land pretty easily in soft well kept grass. We'd all done it. Or when you came back to the wall swinging your feet up to catch, the others would reach out and grab you. This day though Gary looked at us and joked 'I gotta get home or my ol man is gonna beat my ass", and it passed as exaggeration but he and I locked eyes as he took his grip on the thin rope. I was nearly sick again right there. He took off, dropped halfway out in the arc waved and turned to walk away."<br />
<br />
Lucinda sat silent, anxious at where the story seemed to go. Blue stared, still, at the snuff glass he drank from, rolling a final drop round and round, working his wrist in a pitched circle. Niether breathed for a moment. Finally he spoke.<br />
<br />
"The flag pole snapped."<br />
<br />
He raised his eyes looking for a bottle. It was empty. He half reached anyway, then lowered his hand and gaze.<br />
<br />
"It didn't make any sense, still doesn't. The flag pole snapped and broke and fell in a perfectly straight line, hitting him right in the head. It doesn't make any sense how precise it seemed. I puked and someone ran to get a grown up. It didn't make sense at first, but I met Death early. And worse I met Evil just a few days before. It's a tough lesson for a 7th grader that sometimes Death is an escape from Evil. That sometimes it ain't something you can be afraid of. "<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-18532054497698360922015-10-12T10:29:00.000-07:002015-10-12T10:29:06.960-07:00Long-haired ThomasIn a land<br />
without homes,<br />
a Kingdom<br />
with no crown,<br />
we were Judges<br />
at least.<br />
Survival rules<br />
strictly enforced<br />
and we were<br />
the strongest.<br />
<br />
We had put<br />
our time in.<br />
<br />
Tramp longest<br />
of all, a born bully,<br />
still handy in<br />
a tussle.<br />
<br />
Buckshot could<br />
drink more than<br />
anyone else,<br />
got a check.<br />
<br />
I guess my hustle<br />
was strong, they say<br />
conversation rules<br />
the nation.<br />
<br />
Long-haired Thomas<br />
was not like us<br />
but no less a part.<br />
<br />
He was a snipe hunter-<br />
kept us fat with<br />
thrown down smokes,<br />
he sang songs.<br />
<br />
No cats allowed<br />
in our dog eat dog<br />
and his voice<br />
was gentle on us<br />
at night.<br />
<br />
Thomas was gentle,<br />
a part of us none the less.Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-65085724672223472772015-10-08T05:53:00.003-07:002015-10-08T05:53:37.807-07:00Thank youThank You<br />
I know<br />
I have been<br />
hateful<br />
to you.<br />
I was lost<br />
in my<br />
passion.<br />
The truth<br />
is<br />
I miss you<br />
very much.<br />
I probably<br />
should<br />
thank you<br />
for<br />
making me<br />
alive again<br />
to love.<br />
Thank you<br />
for<br />
making me<br />
desirable again<br />
to women.<br />
I should thank you<br />
for the<br />
unrequited<br />
love that<br />
warmed<br />
my bones<br />
again<br />
for a while.<br />
Thank you.Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-76776897951760678872015-10-01T10:50:00.000-07:002015-10-01T12:10:19.064-07:00Book of NumbersTwo-faced is<br />
the name she called,<br />
curse your god and<br />
kill yourself.<br />
<br />
Three days and six<br />
into relapse and<br />
spiraling down<br />
we were newly wed,<br />
she was an angelic child<br />
of Billy Burroughs and<br />
kicking against the goads.<br />
<br />
Forty days, no more,<br />
since we had stolen<br />
away from rehab,<br />
the exodus,<br />
our hearts hardened<br />
and necks stiff,<br />
willing sacrifices<br />
on blood stained alter,<br />
but today our worship<br />
offered no respite.<br />
<br />
Tears fat as Martha's<br />
rolled down her cheeks<br />
leaving Revlon tracks,<br />
ashes and sack-clothe.<br />
Unable to wash away<br />
born-again<br />
dope-sick Jones.<br />
I offered no comfort,<br />
instead righteous indignation,<br />
I lashed out.<br />
<br />
A paired countenance?<br />
Truly that and more.<br />
Ten Thousand faces<br />
I have known.<br />
A Thousand Thousand<br />
lies, to keep us high.<br />
<br />
The number of<br />
finger and thumb<br />
rolled cotton balls<br />
dried stiff,<br />
orange caps and<br />
rigs dulled and<br />
matchbook sharpened<br />
with the units<br />
worn smooth on<br />
over-used barrels<br />
left behind busted-up-dressers,<br />
pay-by-the-week motels,<br />
without end,<br />
like Abraham's children.<br />
<br />
Numbers this great<br />
have names known<br />
only to the church<br />
of long dead magicians-<br />
earliest mathematicians,<br />
hookah and hashish,<br />
bridging the gap<br />
between sand and stars,<br />
between Heaven and Earth.<br />
<br />
Each face, each place and<br />
infinite next pilgrim<br />
share singular purpose-<br />
<br />
a prayerful look forward.<br />
<br />
Scanning without cease<br />
the horizons, the very<br />
edge of paradise,<br />
hungry eyes searching<br />
(milk and honey I promise)<br />
through tunnel vision slits<br />
of unending masks<br />
seeking favor, discernment and grace-<br />
forgiveness for sins as yet uncopped and<br />
the darkest spirit asking me,<br />
in a small still voice,<br />
<br />
Good and faithful servant<br />
who will you be in this moment<br />
in order to stay loaded today?<br />
<br />
<br />Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-62459234990864759452015-09-24T08:45:00.000-07:002017-03-20T09:24:48.431-07:00Bedtime storyNever resting,<br />
in those days,<br />
in those places<br />
sleep was<br />
a pretty girl<br />
playing<br />
at hard to get.<br />
<br />
When you see<br />
us chin on chest<br />
in parks or<br />
wobbly-necked<br />
in air-conditioned<br />
public spaces<br />
it is hard not<br />
to count us lazy.<br />
<br />
We never rest<br />
even if we sleep.<br />
<br />
And each one<br />
of us courts<br />
the pretty girl.<br />
We want her.<br />
She offers us peace.<br />
<br />
Some with brown<br />
bottles, others<br />
with black-bottomed<br />
spoon and I as often<br />
as anyone.<br />
<br />
I told myself stories<br />
and poems.<br />
<br />
Bedtime stories.<br />
I wrote another world.<br />
<br />
I dreamed of having<br />
a voice.<br />
<br />
Interviews on art, poetry, romance.<br />
<br />
I live my dreams now.<br />
<br />
I saw Carlos<br />
stretched out<br />
on a pallet<br />
behind the old<br />
Veterans Center<br />
<br />
yesterday<br />
<br />
and I think<br />
how lucky that<br />
I am rested<br />
and still have a shot<br />
at being relevant.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-41529084274967715352015-09-05T10:45:00.002-07:002017-12-10T13:42:11.724-08:00Good MorningGood Morning<br />
<br />
We woke<br />
early<br />
evacuating<br />
slots<br />
on asphalt,<br />
lined reflective<br />
yellow,<br />
each man<br />
parked<br />
for the night-<br />
smothering<br />
Arkansas summers.<br />
<br />
Winters we slept<br />
in doorways<br />
and on landings,<br />
storm and shelter,<br />
that sort of thing.<br />
When the first city <br />
bus moved from<br />
shop to depot,<br />
when the first<br />
stinking trucks<br />
snatched and<br />
dumped green dumpsters<br />
we were already<br />
gone- making way<br />
<br />
for citizens<br />
whose jobs were<br />
downtown.<br />
<br />
Buckshot and Tommy<br />
would go to the Sally,<br />
cold coffee and grits.<br />
Tramp met a guy<br />
at the corner and<br />
hopped into his truck.<br />
Three dollar hammer<br />
and cloth nail bag in hand.<br />
I walked each day<br />
to Mom's Liquor on Main,<br />
then spent 5th floor days<br />
with Hank, and Beat kids<br />
and Ray Carver poems.<br />
<br />
And 2nd floor pecking<br />
out words of my own.<br />
<br />
This morning after<br />
the song birds and breakfast-<br />
<br />
fresh juice and prosciutto with cheese-<br />
<br />
and all I could think was<br />
I guess I should vacuum the pool.<br />
<br />
then<br />
<br />
things always change,<br />
nothing lasts forever,<br />
no matter how good or how bad.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Bedtime Story<br />
<br />
Never resting,<br />
in those days,<br />
in those places<br />
sleep was<br />
a pretty girl<br />
playing<br />
at hard to get.<br />
<br />
When you see<br />
us chin on chest<br />
in parks or<br />
wobbly-necked<br />
in air-conditioned<br />
public spaces<br />
it is hard not<br />
to count us lazy.<br />
<br />
We never rest<br />
even if we sleep.<br />
<br />
And each one<br />
of us courts<br />
the pretty girl.<br />
We want her.<br />
She offers us peace.<br />
<br />
Some with brown<br />
bottles, others<br />
with black-bottomed<br />
spoon and I as often<br />
as anyone.<br />
<br />
I told myself stories<br />
and poems.<br />
<br />
Bedtime stories.<br />
I wrote another world.<br />
<br />
I dreamed of relevance.<br />
<br />
Interviews on art, poetry, romance.<br />
<br />
I live my dreams now.<br />
<br />
I saw Carlos<br />
stretched out<br />
on a pallet<br />
behind the old<br />
Veterans Center<br />
<br />
yesterday<br />
<br />
and I think<br />
how lucky that<br />
I am rested<br />
and still have a shot<br />
at being relevant.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Game<br />
<br />
The guy drilling<br />
Old E into my<br />
chest lost his mama<br />
and grandma<br />
in one crazy<br />
BANG<br />
moment and he got<br />
blamed.<br />
<br />
He don't<br />
give a fuck about<br />
no outlaw.<br />
<br />
And the Cheshire girls<br />
with their sexy lips<br />
disappear just like<br />
they're supposed to do.<br />
<br />
The keyboards are<br />
quieter now but<br />
never still.<br />
and still you fear it.<br />
<br />
And guys like Knute Rockne<br />
or Dan Gables or<br />
Brian Robinson in my<br />
own fight,<br />
the greatest coaches say<br />
envision the win.<br />
<br />
I learn from the loss,<br />
pick at the carnage<br />
for arts sake,<br />
I remember the jones,<br />
<br />
but I picture the win,<br />
keep pecking away,<br />
<br />
because the only victory<br />
in this game is relevance.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Move Slow<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 0.05in; margin-top: 0.05in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">In the places<br />I have lived<br />lives, nine<br />times ninety,<br />the places and<br />the lives<br />numbers that<br />shame felines,</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 0.05in; margin-top: 0.05in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">(The things<br />that I have done.<br />the same feelings,</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 0.05in; margin-top: 0.05in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">shame.)</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 0.05in; margin-top: 0.05in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">in these places<br />things move<br />slow.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 0.05in; margin-top: 0.05in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Slow as steam<br />from a gut-pile<br />left hunter fresh<br />on November<br />mornings<br />in Arkansas woods.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 0.05in; margin-top: 0.05in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Slow as crows<br />feast, for thanksgiving<br />until no evidence<br />remains.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 0.05in; margin-top: 0.05in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">At nineteen,<br />up North with<br />an uncle,<br />days spent<br />breaking back<br />and mopping<br />hot tar<br />I learned this<br />most valuable<br />lesson of all</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 0.05in; margin-top: 0.05in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">in a bar called<br />Lost Acres<br />outside of Chicago,<br />on the Joliett side.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 0.05in; margin-top: 0.05in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">I met a guy<br />named Lucky<br />he had white hair,<br />a quick grin<br />and a small fleet<br />of trucks.<br />He rode a<br />Knucklehead Harley,<br />was clever,<br />and smooth with<br />ladies. He was<br />everything<br />I had always<br />pretended to be.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 0.05in; margin-top: 0.05in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">Lucky moved slow.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 0.05in; margin-top: 0.05in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">He took me<br />to Kings Shoeshines,<br />hooked me up<br />with dark ladies<br />whose tits<br />had cost more<br />than my car,<br />he drove me to<br />Cicero and showed<br />me where<br />to cop dope.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 0.05in; margin-top: 0.05in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The first bag<br />on him.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 0.05in; margin-top: 0.05in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">The lesson<br />didn't stick though<br />until he asked<br />a pistol favor,<br />my debt weighing<br />heavy in hand.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-top: 0.05in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">In moments<br />like these<br />things move slow,<br />because you<br />don't just ask<br />a guy<br />to kill someone<br />all at once.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="line-height: 0.1in; margin-top: 0.08in;">
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 9.6px;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Still<br />
<br />
Mom used to<br />
step on<br />
the chocolate<br />
milk.<br />
<br />
She would<br />
every once<br />
in a great while<br />
buy a<br />
half a gallon<br />
of store brand<br />
chocolate<br />
milk-<br />
<br />
no bunnies<br />
or zany cowboy<br />
logos at<br />
extra cost-<br />
<br />
then she'd<br />
refill the gallon<br />
of "white"<br />
milk, pour<br />
the sweet treat<br />
over a half<br />
gallon plain<br />
making it<br />
less rich.<br />
No less tasty.<br />
<br />
Mama had 6 kids,<br />
watched nickels<br />
and dimes.<br />
<br />
She stepped on<br />
the milk but<br />
I never got<br />
used to it<br />
any other way.<br />
<br />
I drink it<br />
that way<br />
still.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Anymore<br />
<br />
I was in rehab<br />
with this Bama<br />
chick once,<br />
not the one<br />
I married.<br />
<br />
She cried<br />
great tears<br />
while she prayed<br />
I remember<br />
believing she<br />
could have<br />
washed Christ's<br />
feet.<br />
<br />
Her old man<br />
had shot her,<br />
twelve gauge,<br />
long time ago.<br />
<br />
She remembered<br />
that<br />
he cried for her,<br />
offered her<br />
a smoke.<br />
<br />
She killed him later.<br />
<br />
Run off from rehab<br />
with a dare devil guy,<br />
rode motorcycles,<br />
I heard he<br />
beat her ass.<br />
<br />
I don't believe<br />
in as much<br />
anymore.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"So you were his friend, the one from the stories."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Boots McCormac leaned back in his chair, and touched the sweating neck of the Bud Light bottle sitting centered on a coaster, on an uncluttered table next to his chair.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
"Yeah, I was in the stories, some of the poem stuff too. That was his thing ... I liked some of them. The ones about me of course, and about Blue's kids. I was truck driver most of my life. That stuff wasn't my thing. He was just so paranoid. He never really believed that anybody liked him. He could be such a prick sometimes- he'd put all these little "fuck you " comments in that stuff. If he thought people liked somebody else, the poems anyway, he'd be all crappy to them in the story. Everybody knew who they were in his stories even if he changed their names- my girl hated him. My Mom was Catholic ... he wrote this one about Jesus or something ... with whistling hands and I was like "what?" He just put his palm to his face and whistled like he was blowing through a hole in his hand like at a girl or to catch a cab or something.You know like from the nails. I remember thinking Jesus this son of a bitch is going to hell."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
He picks up the bottle but stops before he takes a drink.<br />
<br />
"Yeah - he was my friend."</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
~~***The Death of Ethan Blue***~~</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
JOURNAL ENTRY - June 5, 2041<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I had met him when I was a kid, he actually lived with us for a while before we moved to Texas. Until the very last my mother would tell me- if she happened to see one of his books at a rummage sale or something else that reminded her. She'd tell me that she had been his big love, the love of his life. It was obvious to me that even though he'd only been around a year or so and that was at least thirty years ago, that she still loved him in some way. I suspected there were dozens of others who thought the same thing, that they had been "the one" -his books suggested it. For my part I remembered the pot-smoking drunken writer staying with us often all loud and to me hilariously funny but all the details about who he really was, were fuzzy, I had only been eleven years old then. I had followed him online for a while and before he died he had attained a sort of semi-celebrity, a kind of a cult following for his fictionalized autobiographical character that appeared in both poems and short stories, I read all of his stuff I could find. He was probably the reason I had started writing in the first place, that's what Mama always said, and I never really considered any other path than journalism when I started college.<br />
After she died I talked my bosses at the magazine into letting me write a story about him. I was going to try and find the others from his stories, the people that knew him. I knew that they were real, just like the stories about me and Mom. He lived like he was a walking- talking movie, outrageous and larger-than-life and then recorded it onto paper in an oddly sad southern voice. As a tribute to my mother's passing I wanted to find out who the real Ethan Blue was and how he managed to cast his spell on people in spite of his short comings. I started researching and tracking down the actual people he had used as characters, nearly all of them had been in some kind article or other that still floated the internet eternal, purgatory for poets and journalists alike. He seemed to have a way of writing about their flaws along with his own and in a weird twist of fate, making them love him for it. Just as my mother had until the day she died.<br />
I planned to do a sort of cross country trip, since the ones I had found were scattered across fifteen states, keeping a journal of my adventure like he had done. I would stop and do interviews with old girlfriends, family members, whoever I could convince to talk to me. My intended last stop would be Little Rock, Ar where he was buried. His grave a fitting last chapter for my diary.</div>
<br />
<br />Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-49850285627614529772015-08-11T16:58:00.004-07:002015-08-11T16:58:56.502-07:00Story Tellers This is a love story, about my last wife Shelley- the one I stole from a Jesus rehab. Its a love story in that we loved drugs. It involves behaviors from my past - I apologize in advance for any offense the truth of the way I lived may cause.<br />
<br />
We used all day, every day. We drank from the time we woke up until the time we went to sleep. 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.<br />
Shelly was terribly jealous.<br />
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.<br />
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,<br />
<br />
"We're Bonnie and Clyde."<br />
<br />
Did I mention she was nuts?<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
Just before Halloween we were driving around like this when the car began to get hot. It was about time for 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.<br />
<br />
"Think we could get some water?", I asked a group of men then mentioned we were from out of state.<br />
<br />
"Sure thing", a kind older guy said, "What brought you guys here"?<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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".<br />
<br />
"Well sure, sure you guys come on in here and join us, won't you? We'd be happy to have you join us."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"I don't want to eat," she said, "I'm not hungry."<br />
<br />
" Gosh dang it Shelly", I said ( or at least something very much like that, I heard this might be on the radio ) , " I don't care how messed up you are, or how hungry you are, I want you to get your pretty little butt in there and help me work this thing. We can eat and that guy will probably give us twenty bucks when we get done. Let's go."<br />
<br />
Reluctantly, she came in with me. The man I had spoken to was sitting at a table with his wife and two empty chairs. They had already made our plates.<br />
<br />
"So tell me a little about this place where you guys came from," he asked.<br />
<br />
I explained to him about the rehabs mission. Most of the details I gave him were true, but I changed the facts just enough to suit my needs. Then I got rolling, and laid down Devine hustle.<br />
<br />
" I was reading my Bible one night after prayer," I said. "It was the story of the demon-possessed man- the version from Mark I believe, 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."<br />
<br />
It was clear to me now, 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, back at the Christian Rehab 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.<br />
<br />
"What a lot of people don't really pay attention to, and what God shared with me through His living 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 pain of his life - he wanted to go with Jesus, wanted to hop in that boat with Jesus and the others and serve Him. But Jesus, had another plan."<br />
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.<br />
Afraid to die.<br />
Afraid of Hell.<br />
<br />
"Jesus, who was surely moved by the conversion of this man told him- '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, <br />
"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."<br />
<br />
It took 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.<br />
They don't know that with me, it didn't take.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"We would be honored to join you. And thanks for your help. I felt like the Lord was leading me here for a reason."<br />
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 smack. 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.<br />
<br />
"What if they figured out already? What if they know?"<br />
<br />
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 already because I couldn't have a drink. They would smell it for sure.<br />
<br />
"Gosh dang it , Shelly." I said ( or words to that effect ), "Get a freakin' dress on, you want to wait all freakin' 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 nothing else going on."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
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 "dope monster " wouldn't wait.<br />
After lunch, 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 couple of weeks until every penny was gone.<br />
After that we did the church thing every chance we had. We eventually got serious enough about this 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.<br />
<br />
And by always I mean until we both went to prison a couple months later - but that's another story for another day.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-38576238995656655002015-08-01T11:01:00.001-07:002015-08-01T11:01:19.048-07:00Everybody Loved Her GrandpaHer pockets<br />
weren't the only<br />
things that had<br />
been high<br />
in Nashville,<br />
living<br />
mood to mood<br />
with a pimp<br />
son of a ton<br />
of great songs<br />
and that one<br />
from the radio.<br />
<br />
His chip bigger<br />
than his shoulders<br />
maybe a little<br />
greater<br />
than his talent.<br />
<br />
No,<br />
<br />
she'd been<br />
junkie angels<br />
high,<br />
and front yard<br />
crying low.<br />
<br />
She'd mostly<br />
come back,<br />
crashing hard,<br />
but walking<br />
away from the<br />
landing-<br />
they say<br />
that makes<br />
it a good one.<br />
<br />
He was not in<br />
better shape, and<br />
truth told a<br />
little crazy,<br />
<br />
still,<br />
<br />
for dope and booze<br />
and the records<br />
of her former<br />
Harlem River<br />
Daddy, her other<br />
favorites too.<br />
<br />
She'd made it back,<br />
had to get back,<br />
down to Arkansas<br />
back to the farm.<br />
<br />
He dropped in there,<br />
traveling from<br />
the last place to<br />
anyplace next,<br />
a big shot<br />
without a single<br />
dollar bill.<br />
<br />
They took a ride<br />
down back roads,<br />
the trash in the<br />
floorboards<br />
ankle deep.<br />
She drank her<br />
last beer.<br />
He smoked<br />
a cashed bowl.<br />
<br />
They bragged<br />
about scars,<br />
laughed like<br />
they'd never seen<br />
death eating crackers-<br />
the shake<br />
and bake kids-<br />
and famine<br />
eating the rest<br />
of them,<br />
its teeth deep<br />
and drawing back<br />
blood<br />
before pushing in.<br />
<br />
Then they talked<br />
small voiced<br />
about ones who<br />
didn't come<br />
down,<br />
buried in boxes,<br />
in worm<br />
riddled ground.<br />
<br />
When their time<br />
was done they<br />
never noticed,<br />
counting out change<br />
at the Legion,<br />
ordered two more<br />
cheap beers.<br />
<br />
They huddled<br />
and chuckled and<br />
shed half a tear,<br />
but everybody<br />
knew they were<br />
too much alike<br />
<br />
to be real.<br />
<br />
So instead<br />
she hugged his<br />
neck and said<br />
again soon,<br />
but he was<br />
already writing<br />
a sad story<br />
in his head.<br />
<br />
And she was<br />
just like her<br />
Grandpa,<br />
and he was just<br />
like everybody<br />
else.<br />
<br />Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6935875957585335582.post-88184859121549277922015-07-29T19:01:00.000-07:002015-07-29T19:01:06.252-07:00Poor BabyToo sad<br />
for poetry.<br />
Too far gone<br />
to save.<br />
Even the dogs<br />
distance<br />
themselves and<br />
the cat just<br />
howls<br />
for a leveling<br />
of his bowl.<br />
<br />
I cannot paint,<br />
and prose sounds<br />
dumb, and the<br />
stage it seems<br />
is for those<br />
much prettier than me.<br />
<br />
I am lost<br />
in selfish introspection.<br />
<br />
I am too<br />
sad to write<br />
a poem.<br />
<br />
<br />Justin Boothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00017781701993635171noreply@blogger.com0