As a kid I was a pinball knocked around from school to
School.
Hit the road after sophomore year, [forgot] to tie my shoes.
At eighteen the courts caught me, ordered me to rehab
Sat behind a
beautiful
busty older woman who stank of
sobriety.
On the way to get coffee she ran a hand through my hair
Halfway through the speech she told me,
“I have what you need”
For four months I stayed fucked up off mature
sex
The night before probation ended she
tied me up,
covered my eyes
straddled my torso,
commanded,
“OPEN WIDE”
I complied my teeth grazed something slick
“If you try to leave me, this nine will kill you, prick”
(it’s like)
I made love to a woman with      a gun in my mouth
She went to sleep after letting    the fuck          out
I finally realized I had to       get                out           of the
South
So I took her money, her car and her nine
By the time she woke I’d crossed five county lines
Bought a Tuxedo in Tulsa to impress a girl in high school
Her favorite words were “Your shoes untied, your hands so cool”
Only let me touch her below the waist
Told me she never let things that                             cold get close to her heart
the way boys in her class smiled made me jealous
then I remembered my favorite number hiding in my car
I watched their smiles turn to
frowns          as their
bodies           hit the
ground.
Took the advice of a man spent half his life in prison
“Go west until you don’t see anyone the same color as your
skin”
Wound up in Alaska with a genuine Inuit woman
Snowed in somewhere around
nowhere     she stabbed my shoulder and I broke her jaw
Thank    Uncle Sam Almighty for those
goddamn                                     cabin fever laws.
She gave me homemade          stitches then we made
love so hot
you thought winter would end
But the only thing that’d melt the snow was a birth of twins
The morning after I delivered them I [forgot] to tie my        shoes.
Across the Canadian border I
almost
wish
I’d
stayed
to
watch
them
live

Ended up in San Francisco smoking rock in a flat not facing the bay.
Judge let me off easy when they caught me flipping bricks.
Short six-month stint, a slap on the wrist to keep me off the hard shit.
When in prison I called my father     to be
forgiven
My stepmother faltered when I spoke his name
“Son,               he didn’t make it through the winter”
I’m sorry
(my)
I got out, finding myself magnetically pulled toward his grave
Snorted a Klonopin
off his tombstone to have other
excuses
for red  eyes and a
runny nose
But the stepmother saw me at his grave, cops were on me as I was
wailing
his name
Got me for v a g r a n c y cause my shoes were untied
When I get out, I’ll introduce that bitch to my nine, it’s buried by his side.
It’ll be
THE END
of us
(You, I, her, everyone)
So when lunch comes I’ll trade your         corndog for a
cigarette
Once you leave let me get your                   care        kit, you won’t
be needing         it.

Ma made me shower with the bathroom door open in case I fell down or did anything else drunks do. I told her if she weren’t my mother she’d make a great college roommate. She also helped me to my old bed, which I fell asleep on without even getting under the covers.

I woke to water being thrown on my face. It shocked the shit out of me, but all I did was lazily open my eyes. I saw my father holding a bucket. The sun still shone through the window.
“Driving home drunker than a skunk, you’re a damn fool,” he said.
“Dude, you’re going to make Mom mad getting her sheets wet.”
“You’re going to be the one washing them. How many times have I told you not to drink and drive, drink while driving, drink then drive or any other version of the saying? What’s the definition of stupidity?”
“Doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result.”
“Yes, then why the hell do you keep drinking and driving?”
“Haven’t you seen the news?”
“I don’t give a fuck about…”
“Shh…” I said, putting a finger lightly up to my lips. “I thought we should all be together. We don’t have time for hate right now.” He stood there digesting my words. My eyes had closed again by the time he left, but I didn’t hear him slam the door. I imagine he shut it lightly, stealing one last peek at his son before closing it.

When I came to again it was dark. I was still a little drunk. No chance of sleeping off the hangover. It’d be on me in an hour, tops. I went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water purified from the sink. I reached into the medicine cabinet and pulled out an assortment of vitamins, fish oil, Pepcid AC and BC powder. I took everything but the Pepcid AC as I downed my first glass of water. I opened the refrigerator and took out a Gatorade.
“There’s a plate in the fridge for you to heat up,” my mother said from in the living room.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“We just turned off the news.”
“What time is it?”
“You tell me. Look at the damn clock above the stove,” Pop said. I opened the Gatorade and dropped a couple tablets of Pepcid AC into it. I liked the sound the chemical reaction made. I looked at the clock. It said 11:32 p.m. I reopened the fridge and took out the plate my mother had neatly arranged and covered with Cling-Wrap. Cube steak and gravy, mashed potatoes and green beans: those would make me feel righteous. I took off the Cling-Wrap and set the plate in the microwave to reheat. I opened the freezer and took out two chocolate covered cherries. Sometimes chocolate made my hangover headache dissipate. I ate them while waiting on my food to be properly nuked.
“There’s some lettuce in the drawer if you want a salad,” Ma said. She and Pop came into the kitchen and turned the light on.
“I might get one after I finish my plate.” Translated that meant, “Salads suck.”
“Your mother tells me you skipped class today,” Pop said.
“Ah, I wasn’t going to go anyway.”
“I’m not going to pay for your classes if you don’t attend them.”
“Pop, if we’re still here next semester, you don’t have to pay for a goddamn thing.”
“Kevyn, don’t talk like that,” Ma said.
“What? Ignoring the apocalypse isn’t going to make it not happen.”
“I was talking about taking the Lord’s name in vain.” My dinner was ready so I ignored her last statement. I sat down at the table and began to feast. I hadn’t eaten all day. I then remembered how much I drank, all on an empty stomach. I smirked because I was proud of myself.
“What are you smiling about?” Pop asked.
“Nothing.”
“Well, I’m going to bed. I have to work in the morning.”
“You’re really going to work in the morning?”
“Son, just because we’re facing a predicament doesn’t mean we can let everything else go to shit. It won’t be as bad as they say, nothing ever is. Swine Flu, Y2K, fuck ‘em, the media has no idea what they’re talking about. They never have. If shit gets bad, we’ll get in the basement. Are you going back to school tomorrow?”
“Either way, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Ma said. “I feel better that he’s here.”
“Okay. But while you’re here, make yourself useful and mow the lawn or something.”
“Alright,” I said. “Night, Pop. I love you.”
“I love you, too, son.” He lumbered off to their bedroom.
“I’m going to bed, too. It’s way past my bedtime. Night,” she said and kissed me on the forehead. I finished my dinner alone. I had a strange feeling I couldn’t really explain. I think most people would have called it happiness.

And I have this pit in my stomach.
It’s been there since I popped your cherry.
I prayed to virgins and lepers.
Begged them to make it disappear.

I told my internist I hoped it takes root.
So something fruitful would come from body.
So god or mother or satan could give a life as she took one.
He referred me to a decorated doctor of the mind.
He told me he’d give me some shit so strong even trees would think they were dead.

But a tree has to know,
Has to know as it gives us oxygen,
As the lumberjack hacks at its skin,
As we carelessly paste it together above a sandy foundation to keep us dry,
As we burn it for warmth,
As the dog marks it as his,
As the boy carves his love in it,
As the girl climbs it and kisses its facade,
It has to know it’s alive.

I took it fifty milligrams at a time.
I couldn’t feel my head, couldn’t feel my fingers.
I forgot about you, but the pit refused to die,
The leaves tickled my lining.
I felt like a forsaken pregnant girl.
Loving and hating what was inside me.

I spent afternoons in fields, hands dug deep in the soil.
No one would let me touch them,
But my hands had never felt cleaner.
I lied down to rest in a field of roses and rye.
The roots finally took hold, beautiful limbs reached for the sky,
Something my arms could never do.
The next day the sun burned my retinas.
I traded vision for understanding.
It was a perfect two months
Until they dozed us so semis could bypass downtown.

I stood outside, my face red with sunburn, wondering, Is this really the end?

I heard it on the television from someone I didn’t recognize. By that time all the high-ups and famous people had already learned of the future and had retreated to bunkers. What was left was some uncharismatic intern so willing to be on TV that they would be the harbinger of death.

“Experts predict one week until life on the surface is unsustainable. The President has already been relocated underground. It is advised that everyone does the time.”

I turned off the TV. I never liked watching it much anyway. I went into my bedroom and grabbed the aluminum bat leaned up against the wall next to the bed. No need to worry about robbers anymore. I walked back into the living room and assumed a batters stance. I wiggled my hips back and forth to get the weigh distribution right, sixty percent on the back leg, forty percent on the front. I lifted my front foot up for timing then lightly set it back down. I swung. It was the first time I had done so in years. Someone who didn’t know the circumstances could have mistaken me for David Justice. The bat hit the TV. The glass broke, the set somehow split in two. Every hitter wants his last stroke to be a smash. Kill the messenger.

I dropped the bat and grabbed my keys off the desk. I left my apartment leaving the door open. I stopped at a gas station to fill up my tank. I went inside to buy a pack of Camel Lights, but ended up purchasing an entire carton. I quit a few months ago to be healthy, but longevity was now a non-factor. I also decided police pulling me over for DUI was a non-factor so I tucked the carton of smokes under my armpit and picked up a twelve pack of Landshark beer in each hand. I saw a basket of fruit near the door that had two limes in it. I set down the beer in my left hand–my right arm was holding the cigarettes to my side, on the floor, and put the two limes in the breast pocket of my flannel shirt.

“Hey, you have to pay for that beer, my friend,” the cashier said on my way out.
“Fuck you, Rome wasn’t built in a day,” I told him.

At the first red light I came to I cut and sliced both limes with my pocketknife. I couldn’t find a good place to put them so I went ahead and popped the tops of all my beer that were buckled in the passenger seat. I stuck a piece of lime in the top of every one of them. It looked funny and cool enough to be in a commercial if they’d let drinking and driving be advertised on air.

After I made the turn to get on the highway, I rummaged through the side compartment on the door and found a lighter. I packed the first pack of cigarettes against my palm then opened them. I considered turning one of the cigarettes the opposite way for luck then realized I didn’t need luck anymore. The first drag had that glorious feeling of good only something that is killing you slowly can give you, like a big gulp of a cool fizzy soft drink. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t be able to suck enough cancer sticks to kill me.

I sipped on my first beer going well over 100 miles per hour. I had left early enough to beat the panic traffic, but I was certain the high velocity wouldn’t last for long. I did it then because I never knew if I’d be able to do it again. I figured I’d be in that truck for a while.

I looked over at my alcoholic beverages riding shotgun. Damn, I should have gotten a cooler and ice. Oh well, I had drank warm beer before. If the television were right, this wouldn’t be the last time, either.

Three skinny surgeon fingers with a key between each
Press down softly to make the most beautiful sound.
Much more beautiful than when the surgeon
Operates on in his 9:15 in the bedroom.
Release the keys, afraid to press them again.
Scared of the success, the truth that comes with the sound.
It’s even scarier than the moaning of the 9:15 in the bedroom.
Close the cover and walk away.
Surgeons are successful in their own right.
Leave the truth to the fuckers dumb enough to believe it’s obtainable.
I’ve got my 9:45 in the bedroom, hot with anticipation.

Three teenage fingers struggle to hold down the three skinny strings of a guitar.
The same three fingers that trembled lightly on your chest last night,
The same three strings betting you’ll break before they do.
The fingers and the strings grind awkwardly together,
Like the first time you thought you made love.
The fingers keep pushing, and the strings can’t say no,
Unlike you.
The fingers working hard to be famous,
So they can fuck other women.
And no one will blame them.

Other Side of 59

To get to Birmingham from where I live you take I-59 once you get to Gadsden. The well-worn pavement will take you straight downtown. Birmingham is well renowned its medical facilities.
I had one hand on the wheel and the other on the gearshift. She leaned against the window, as far away from me as possible. If my truck had a backseat, she would have been sitting in it.
Storm clouds filled the sky, but she still wore oversized sunglasses. She wore a black sweatshirt of her favorite band. The hood covered head, but you could still see some strands of her blonde hair covering her glasses, which covered her eyes: double layer of protection. She wore gray sweatpants for comfort. She wore no makeup; some things people don’t want to look for their best for. She had a thin body on which she prided herself.
She looked majestic in her sorrow. She kept the chin held high cause once the chin falls it can’t rise again without tears falling to lighten the head. She wouldn’t even look down to check her constantly vibrating cell phone. Whenever a teenager ignores a vibrating cell phone they are either having sex or unconscious.
Veins were visible on my right arm from shifting gears too hard, like I was off The Fast and the Fucking Furious. The further I drove the tighter my T-shirt seemed to be. I turned on the radio to fill the truck with some noise. Static blared through the speakers.
“Turn that shit off,” she said, “if you aren’t careful…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll go fucking deaf. Jesus Christ, you sound like a mom.” A hand with French manicured fingernails smacked my face. Thinking before acting was never one of my strong points, hers either. The nails left marks as they slid across my cheek. I used to love those marks when they covered my back and shoulders. If they drew blood, that was even better. Now I prayed these would not be visible in a few hours.
I let two miles pass on the odometer then said, “Look, I’m sorry.” But we both knew the tone was not sincere enough, so I quietly said,
“I really am.”
“Your apologies mean nothing to me.” She said this as if these kinds of things were one person’s fault.
“At least I’m still here.”
“That’s the fucking problem. I should have listened to my friends and dumped you after Julie.”
“And I should have listened to my friends and stayed with Julie.”
“I wish that’s the way things were. Then she could be here instead of me.”
“Julie eats breakfast every morning so she remembers to take her vitamins and pills.”
As her voice rose, her chin lifted itself higher and higher. “I’m not the one that has trouble controlling myself and knowing my body and it’s limits.”
When this argument started her body turned to face me with on of her legs being put on the seat. She kept making quick gestures with her hands: bringing them to her forehead then quickly moving them out into emptiness.
We passed a sign that said seventeen miles to Birmingham. The sign grabbed both out attentions causing a reprieve in the hostilities.
“Are we on time?” She asked.
“No, we’re a few minutes late.”
“Fuck, we can’t be late, not for this.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll speed up.” Since I was already in fifth gear, I only pressed down on the accelerator, causing the motor to increase its hum. Five miles passed then she said, “Look out!” I instinctively pressed the clutch and brake, but then realized no wreck was imminent.
“What the fuck?”
“There is a cop up ahead on the left.”
“You could have said ‘Cop’ or something instead of me thinking my life was about to be over.”
“It got you to slow down, didn’t it? If the cop would have caught you, your life really would have been over, mine too.”
“It was good you caught him early, Thanks.”
“It could have been a girl, too.”
“Well, whatever the case, we need to be more careful. We might not be so lucky next time.”
“Yeah, you should probably slow down.”
“I already have, hun.” A closed-lipped half-smile appeared on her face. I didn’t know if word “hun” or me doing as she said caused the smile, but it made me think of the way things were. When her smiles were full and contained enough brightness for both of us. When music filled the car and our silence was a good thing. Now we had created something whose decimation was our personal salvation, but the death of us. Sometimes the death of the institution was better for the people it tried to serve.
There was so much that we could say, some of it loathing, some of it loving, that we settled on saying nothing. Her head had turned back toward the window and the chin had fallen a bit.
As I changed lanes to take our exit, she slowly and helplessly dug one set of fingers into my forearm and the other into my biceps. She rested her head against my shoulder. Her chin had been lowered. As I downshifted gears to make the turn she pressed her nails harder into my arm. I tensed my arm muscles and let the feeling of my old lost pleasure wash over me. There are some touches, scratches, grabs, or pulls that stay with you and can be felt upon remembering for years.
She held onto me until I turned the car again, but before she let go she kissed my triceps muscle right where my shirtsleeve ended. When she pulled away she raised her head up and I could see tears coming from somewhere beneath the sunglasses. There are some things you can’t prevent no matter how well protected you are.
I wanted to feel her lips on my lips, not my skin, but resisted the urge to fall into her and let the car stall in the middle of the road. I resisted because I knew what road that could take me down and what road I needed to be on. These two roads went in opposite directions.
I pulled into the parking lot and pulled into a parking spot facing the road.
“Do you want me to come in with you?”
“No, having you there to hold my hand won’t help. When it comes down to it, all that male support does nothing. It’s bullshit.” She said this in a nurturing tone.
“I guess you’re right.” And I still think she is.
She got out of the car and closed the door too softly; it did not completely shut. As she reopened the door she took off her sunglasses, threw them on the seat, then looked in at me. We made eye contact and I could see the tears in her eyes were gone. I broke eye contact first by looking down. She then looked away and closed the door.
My eyes did not follow in her, but rather stared straight ahead and saw her as she passed through my line of vision. I had a hard time keeping my chin up so I turned on the radio again. The song being played was by the band on her sweatshirt. Across the road there was a sign with an arrow pointing right that said, “To 59.”

GYPSY MAGIC

Listen to the gypsy tell your fortune.
She doesn’t talk, just waves her jewelry
And looks with sorrow at the cards.
Swords pierce hearts held by skeletons.
Shit, the tower.
Crisis.
Atop stands the jester violating the queen.
You pray,
No, you can’t pray. You hope.
Hope the act isn’t consensual,
But the way the burning building reflects in her eyes tells you.
No, screams at you.
You’ve fallen for another whore.
They’re all whores.
Even you.

Reassuring hand runs through your hair.
Baby, they’re just cards, pieces of paper.
What we have is much thicker, baby.
Her bracelets graze against your ear.
She’s just like the gypsy. Speaks better when she doesn’t talk.
What you have may be thicker, but it’s not as pretty as the cards.
Doubtful it will handle time as well as the cards.
They brown and fringe, but they don’t break.

One of the gypsies unplugs the neon sign to hook up the crystal ball.
The glow makes them look the same. Just bracelets and eyes.
They see the same story.
…we will be married and have four children…
…you will wish you took the job in the mines, stayed in darkness….
…they will make you upper management and we will vacation on the gulf….
…you will yearn for hookers in Vegas, drink your son under the table so you aren’t doing it alone…
…at dinner our kids will tell us about practice and sleepovers…
…you will feel alone, a solitary lit candle on the table will remind you…
…Italy will be the place of our retirement…
…you will leave them all and smoke opium in a cabin in Montana…

The ball is filled with unshaved vaginas and baseball caps.
A matching set of cock and balls that doesn’t belong to you.
A recliner and commode beckon as your thrones.
A house you paid for will be taken over by those balls.
The baseball caps will adore them.
You will watch through a window in the winter.
Pull your flannel a little tighter,
Curse the first time your lips fell between a woman’s thighs.

I’ll tell you the 2nd paper in American Lit. II now. We were supposed to do a 1500 word research paper or a creative project that demonstrated how something we read related to the American Dream. We had to email the professor our thesis statement or what we were doing with our project. I told her I was writing a poem about Flannery O’Connor, and that it would be glorious. She said, “I’m sure it will be, but how will you tie it in to what we have done? Email me back and let me know.”

I never emailed her back. The morning it was due, I hammered out the 384 words I will post below and submitted it online. I didn’t go to class that day, nor did I for the rest of the semester, two or three weeks. I was afraid to check the grade because I had this feeling the professor was going to skewer me not only for writing a shitty poem, but also for not actually doing the project.

The morning of the final, which was at 8 a.m., my friend that was sleeping on my futon said,
“Uh Kevyn?”
“Yeah,”
“It’s 8:20.”
“I know, I told him.” I had been in my bed since 7 a.m. when my alarm went off debating whether to go. Note: At this point in my life I wasn’t having a breakdown, but I definitely didn’t give a fuck about anything. I decided not to go because I had missed so many classes, hadn’t posted all those stupid online blogs and my bombed poem. I figured I had failed irregardless of the final grade. I know irregardless is a double negative, but I’m using it for emphasis.

I finally checked the grade of my poem at 9:30. Her comment said, “Does a fairly good job portraying the American dream,” or something along those lines. She gave me an A. This teacher didn’t give everyone A’s either. I remember some really smart, dedicated chick moaning that she got a B-plus on the first paper. I made an A-minus on the first paper. That was the highest grade of anyone I talked to, but I didn’t talk much.

I looked at the clock after I saw the grade and thought, “Damn, I could have passed that class.”
Moral: Never assume, always know for sure. Most of the time teachers will work to pass you if you just try.

My parents were infuriated when I smiled while telling them I made a D in that class. I couldn’t tell them all my bad grades were only I didn’t show up.

Enjoy.

FLANNERY KNOWS I HAVE A CLUB HEART

She was born with red blood, smooth soft white skin of a baby.
Even though she was a girl, they gave her a blue blanket.
God made her in his image put her in the land of the free.
She thanked him daily for it, always praying to his mother Mary.
She never doubted him, even when her chicken legs grew hairy.

He gave her this great gift involving her fingertips
It got her all the way to Redding.
But disease has a way of knocking you down,
Sending you searching for your roots.
She found them in the Peach State,
Decided to nestle in their crevices.

What’s the worth of the work of one’s hands?
What’s the worth of a woman who has never pleased a man?
She made herself a Goddess, penned a world similar to her own
With the inhabitants made in her own image.
She lived in two Americas, hers and God’s.
Both had their amendments and highway systems
Both had their rural backwards backwater counties.
Freedom rang from every flagpole,
But how can I be free when the coming of a tempest makes me tremble?

She made them in her likeness
Hulga with her pirate’s leg and Ph. D.
Deaf Rayber with his waterhead Bishop boy.
Enoch Emory full of dimwittedness and divinity.
All of them with bright qualities.
All of them overshadowed by their handicaps.
All of them made in her likeness.

Swimming in the same stream as Faulkner, Southern Gothic—before the black make-up.
She didn’t burn any barns, but she did leave Hulga wailing in one,
“First He takes my leg then He shakes my soul!”
It’s not just her characters that are warped,
But rather the whole South, a tumor that tried to remove itself in 1861.

America is the struggle
Granted, God has removed most of the obstacles
Hell, it is His Country.
The internal struggle to overcome our imperfect bodies
And rise above this imperfect world, or to at least,
Not let the imperfectness crush you in a self-induced death.

She rose above, made worlds more beautifully imperfect than His.
He wanted her in five years. She made him wait fifteen—typical woman.
He let her into heaven, but chained her to the pearly gates.

I plan to talk about a bit of everything. I want to post often, using this more as a practice for writing than anything else. On days when I don’t feel like typing I’ll post old poems, essays or short stories I have written for faithful followers, even if I don’t have any. Expect libertarian leaning rants on politics, media and women from an almost crazy twenty-year-old balding male.

I promise this will be the least interesting post I ever do. I feel compelled to do the obligatory explanation of things, like this is the first day of class. Consider this your syllabus. Like every teacher I’ve ever had, I doubt I’ll follow it; I won’t get as much done as planned.

Just a little aside for those younger than me: when a professor says you can only have so many absences in a semester or they don’t take late work, they are full of malarkey. The syllabus isn’t for the student, it’s for the head of their department. My father, cool dude, always said to give not one, but two examples of any statement I said that he didn’t agree with.

1. My Journalism 101 syllabus said if you missed more than 5 classes you would fail the class. I missed at least one class a week. It met Monday, Wednesday and Friday in a 16 week semester. That put me missing one-third of the class, at best. I passed with a C. Another aside: Journalism classes are a joke. If you want a degree that means nothing, get one in journalism. More on that in my next post.
2. My American Lit II class said I had to post a 500 word blog each week on the babble we read, or else I’d get a hefty sum of zeros. I did this for three of the 16 times. I pulled a D in the class, but that was because I didn’t show up for the 25 percent of the grade final. I didn’t show because I figured I was screwed from not writing the blogs and my second paper I was too scared to check the grade of. That’s another post as well. Moral of the story: Don’t pay attention to the syllabi.

Wow, that almost unintentionally turned into a post with a point. I think that’s good for now.