Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category


faked by Saturday, June 4th, 2011

I flinch for like the sixth time while passing the exit to Yazoo City. It’s one of the organ donors that does it do me this time; he’s alone, clad in green Kevlar, riding without a pack, bobbing and weaving in between the battered Corollas and single-headlight F-150s. For the hundredth time I think that anybody riding a motorcycle this fast on the highway in Jackson must have a sincere desire to go out the old-fashioned way: with a joyous spray of arterial blood over the spiderwebbed windshield of an elderly Baptist deacon driving ten miles under the speed limit while buzzed on Mad Dog and Kools.

When I drank I never used to flinch. I used to bob and weave in traffic like the organ donors on their chopped & screwed Kawasakis and Ducatis. I’d have the windows down in the Camino—the windows were always down—with a Miller Lite tallboy between my legs as the little cassette player struggled to cough up enough decibels to get over the sputtering engine and roadhum.

I’m singing along to Stevie Wonder asking for Heaven to Help Us All when my phone buzzes. I miss y’all. I am at a country western bar that is playing rap music. I grin so hard that I don’t even flinch when a two-toned Caprice edges me off the highway by riding down the middle of both lanes, a dense heartbeat of bass throbbing and Dopplering behind the Chevy as it roars into the distance, painted yellow by a hundred sodium vapor lights. There are no taillights.


faked by Sunday, May 15th, 2011



faked by Thursday, April 21st, 2011



faked by Monday, March 28th, 2011

My Camaro is sputtering again &
me & dad had to yank the carb, so
I am kicking the back of yr seat
while you get lost downtown
looking for Frankie’s, looking
for Vestavia girls. We are trying
to like Mudhoney this week
because they seem artier
somehow and even if it’s
still Seattle at least it’s
not in the Hit Parader poster books.

There’s a carful of dumbasses &
I kick yr seat some more & you
cuss me for the fifteenth time. At a
stoplight I yank the headrest out and
jam it in backwards. You cuss
me some more.
Mudhoney sucks.

Before you even put it in, Tad
does too. We drink flat
Mountain Dew & munch
Cool Ranch Doritos. None of us
die on 9/11, most of us will
get divorced, there’s a little
rehab in the future, a little
regret, no visible
scars, but
it turns out that jammed in
backwards headrests really
lower the resale value
of 1986 Honda Accords.

Mea culpa, mea culpa.


faked by Sunday, February 20th, 2011

PX600 Silver Shade. Mississippi State Fairgrounds, January 2011.

Got a blister on my finger
got it from a hammer.
What’s your favorite band
you wouldn’t know it.
What’s your favorite game
(Kid Icarus, but the
passwords were a joke).
Got knots in my stomach
didn’t need that malt.
Stagger Lee threw seven,
Billy swore he threw eight
blue lights Dopple
across the ceiling again.
Why does YouTube try to
autocomplete to “Last Caress” live,
nobody wants to hear that.
Want to reread the Kree-Skrull War
but can’t stand Rick Jones.
I got something to say, I got
something to say.


faked by Friday, January 21st, 2011

There was Noise in Birmingham, with Girls Can Tell playing in the background while the owner insisted “even if you don’t like their early stuff this is dynamite.” MQ in Jackson with its Coltrane and Flaming Lips and frankly odd Veedon Fleece fixation (I still have it, of course). Wuxtry in Athens with that signed One Beat poster for like four bucks. Propagandhi and a Gossip in-store at the Criminal in Little Five Points. That place in New Orleans I can’t remember (not the Tower). All the Camelots & Soundshops & TapeTowns (I made that last one up) filled with miles of magnetic ribbon and MADE IN JAPAN Cure singles.

you all reek of nag champa, vinyl &
peppermint, plus
that sweet chemical grape smell
of a brand-new cassette,
Shangri-La, I love you all.


faked by Thursday, January 20th, 2011

Burr & whine
from I-55.
The motorcycle
gangs are making their circuit.
I can hear them from my bed,
three quarters of a mile away.
Clad in neon green
kevlar & spandex they
circle the City, lurch and
wheelie in a godawful
blur. How they’re not
all in jail I have no idea, but
maybe it’s because there’s like
two dozen of them screaming by
at 140 m.p.h.


faked by Wednesday, January 19th, 2011

What’s this she
says. Those are for
storms, we just
screw them down when
it gets rough.
Just plywood? she mumbles,
knocks gently.
She’s from New Jersey.
Yeah, we call them
Biloxi shutters, I laugh as
The rain taps out a
martial beat on
the old window unit.


faked by Tuesday, January 18th, 2011

Nobody knows that
we sneak off & lissen
to Chronic Town &
hold hands. You can’t
tell yr sister because she’s
a total rat, and my
dad will kill me.

So we split the headphones
& light Kools one
after the other, we
kick at the kudzu and
have our carnival, of sorts, while
the tape squeaks,
even though we really just
hold hands and I’m
not even sure you even
like me.

Years later you
send me a friend request and
say I always loved your
hair, fussy & black &
curly like an Italian
, simple poetry from a
mother of two that
makes me swoon.


faked by Monday, November 15th, 2010

I am reading about Hank Williams
and I feel like a jackass.
Dead at 29 with What to Show.
Glories, dozens of them, gold & silver,
bronzed busts—cold hearts and glass-

Feb. 15, 2010.