faked by October 28th, 2013

She used to like to go to the Wal-Mart down at the end of the highway in the middle of the night. I’d run into her sometimes when I was getting off my shift. She’d be standing out in the lobby, plunking quarters into Big Klaw 1000, a ripped up red flannel shirt knotted around her waist.

“What are you winning, Winnie,” I’d say. “Fabulous prizes, fabulous prizes” she would chant softly, kind of with a lisp, just a little bit on the zees. I’d ask her if she wanted to go get a beer and she’d laugh. She never said yes, never said no. Just laughed.

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faked by September 17th, 2013


The proud future insect lies repulsed at me, at us all.

There’s several pictures of it culled from the past decades. Shiny black in most, with stark white tones. The earliest images are worn smooth and blurry, printed thirty two years ago on thin cheap cardboard folded then jammed into rectangles of plastic, stories about the creature’s exploits detailed on the reverse.

The insect’s logogram, thought jammed through words, a knife slid through the ribs, the best we can do at explaining: code with a spider’s legs.

Eight proper ones as we would understand them, two antennae, a half a dozen feelers trailing behind the creature, pentagram carved into its ebony carapace. Even at the dawn of it all the proud insect was there, crawling through a sky of clockwork over blasted blue dunes.

Stamped on thousands of arms and torsos like the face of a lion on a coin, rays of sun spilling from its mouth, red triangle on a beer bottle.

The proud future insect scurries away.


faked by September 6th, 2013



We were going to work on a zine; we talked about it a million times. I could never find the time. You texted me saying “Get it together McCarty.” It was 2011. I tried to get it together, Dear Listener. I tried. I thought it was arrogant; presumptuous! (You’d tell me if those were actually synonyms.) But I appreciated it. Nobody ever pushed me to create, nobody seemed to care like you did. I never told you but it meant the world.

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faked by August 8th, 2013


Last night I saw a lady
feeding a possum
off Fortification Street.
I most certainly did.

She was all lit up in neon
from the Shell sign, the one
where that guy got shot.
It was almost certainly a possum.

Maybe it’s a ferret, you’re
saying, I hear you but I was there
I’m the one almost wrecked his
car slowing down to see.

Once I found the gently rusting carcass
of a ‘66 Pontiac behind some old
storage units. Listen now:
I’m sure it was a possum.

I wanted to roll down the window
and holler out hey! Possums aren’t
pets! Or a good slogan like that.
Maybe there’s even a law on it.

Turns out there’s no possum laws
as far as I can tell. And any time
the Supreme Court talks about
possums, it’s when something went bad wrong.

The state offered evidence proving that the deceased, Roberta McBride, came to her death as the result of shotgun wounds in the side of her face.

Well, a possum didn’t shoot
Roberta McBride in 1933
it was Eddie Smith, her boyfriend.
It’s always the Eddies.

As a witness in his own behalf, the appellant admitted that he killed the deceased with a shotgun, but claimed that he killed her in self-defense.

Okay Eddie, you are in
quite a bit of trouble now, why
don’t you try and hep yoself
out. Splain Eddie, splain.

He testified that during periods of time that the husband of the deceased, Roberta McBride, was away from home, he became intimate with her.

Yes, that’s generally how it works
in my experience. I mean, not my
personal experience, you know.
“Git to the possums,” you say.

[T]hat finally having become fearful of the wrath of the husband, he sought to sever these illicit relations, but Roberta objected and upbraided him on account of his attentions to another woman.

Eddie. Eddie Eddie
Eddie. You are just lying now,
Eddie. You are just a plain old
liar, Eddie Smith.

[T]that when he quit his work about 5:30 o’clock on the day before the killing, he borrowed a shotgun for the purpose of going ‘possum hunting that night, without dogs; that he purchased shells for the gun, and started on the hunt about 6 or half past 6 o’clock.

Son you in Leflore County now.
We know you ain’t gone huntin’ for
no possums without no dogs. What were you
doing, Eddie. What were you doing.

He further testified that when he started hunting, he met Roberta, and thereupon abandoned his hunt and remained with her until 9 o’clock, when he kissed her good night, and she went to her home, and he to his; that about 2 o’clock a.m. she knocked on his door and he let her in.

Oh Eddie, don’t open that door.
Lying about going possum hunting is
one thing, but if you open that door
it’s all gonna fall apart.

Roberta had a pistol which she laid on a shelf in his room; that she continuously quarreled with him from that time until 5 o’clock, when it was time for him to go to work; that he then got up and dressed, and they left the house together, he carrying the shotgun which he had borrowed, and Roberta carrying the pistol which she had brought to his room.

Greewood LeFlore. The
great green woods of Le Fleur. Son of
Rebecca and Louis, our Flowers.

Beloved itibapishi toba.

They proceeded toward Roberta’s home, she continued to quarrel with him about the other woman, and finally said: “Stop, I ain’t joking about what I told you, if I catch you over there. If you don’t believe it, I will do it to you now.”

Eddie, just bear with me, but
I am a time traveler. A ghost.
Boy, even if you are telling the truth, you
need to get out of there right now.

And thereupon she snapped the pistol at him

Son I am saying you need to git on right now

and he turned and shot her, believing that it was necessary to do so to save his own life.

Oh Greenwood don’t do it.
Chief don’t go to Dancing Rabbit.
Don’t talk to that Sharp old Knife.
Chief stay out of Noxubee.

A witness for the state testified that about 6 o’clock of the evening before the killing, Eddie came to his home and sought to borrow or buy about two shotgun shells; that he asked the appellant if he was going hunting, and he laughed and replied: “No, not exactly.”

Eddie, this is the ghost again.
Dang it Eddie, I am just a phantom, a
stranger, but don’t laugh about it.
Don’t laugh.

It was a hundred years since the river people
walked out of Mississippi.
The Chief stayed. He stood on the floor of the House,
spoke Choctaw, eschewed Latin.

In the circuit court of Leflore county,
the appellant was convicted of murder,
and was sentenced to the state penitentiary for life.

You shouldn’t have laughed, Eddie.

Last night I dreamed I saw a
lady feeding a possum
off Fortification Street.
The side of her face was all torn up.

O! Roberta I am just a ghost.
I’m a sorry one, clanking my chains,
worrying about where this long walk
is going to take us.

He died at Parchman Farm, Roberta.
He was pulling up a bunch of onions in
1966. I watched him hunch over and
slump to his knees. Bad heart.

But you already knew that, didn’t
you, Roberta. Sixteen gauge
in the face. It was you got hunt
that night, you know about bad hearts.

O! I am just a lonely ghost,
I live in a box of haints. Good-by
to the river people, good-by
to Roberta, bonnes gens, bon ville.

SOURCES: Polaroid 600 film (1996); Smith v. State, 167 Miss. 85, 147 So. 482 (Miss. 1933), authored by Justice Cook; that old Bonneville that used to be back out of the storage place J.S. Losset had off High; a splash of the former Roberta Joan Anderson, of Saskatchewan, as always, and of course.

’68 Skylark

faked by August 1st, 2013

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faked by July 22nd, 2013


“RIP IT UP is a collection of poetry and drawings about the one true royal son of Tupelo: how he lived, who he loved, how he died, and them Blue Moon Boys that walked by his side. (And how he got his teeth fixed).”


THE UNWED TEENAGE MOTHERS // Forever Until You Are Bones package

faked by May 9th, 2013



ink // screenprinted on cardstock by WAHL // listen to the 45 on the Hiss Lab Bandcamp (or snag the digital for only $3!)


faked by April 12th, 2013


The great Jack Butler is on a tour reading from his grandly reissued JUJITSU FOR CHRIST. This is a bookplate I made to commemorate readings in Jackson and Baton Rouge.



faked by April 2nd, 2013

You kind of think the boy could be really pretty if he weren’t wearing all the makeup.
Corpse paint, he calls it, but it’s only 1990 and everybody still thinks about Peter Criss and Ace Frehley when they see it, the Starchild versus the Phantom of the Park. You haven’t seen a corpse before but you don’t think corpses have really long, clean, gleaming blonde hair.

You go to talk to the boy but he just stands in the corner, every now and then banging up against the fake brick like a busted robot, mumbling to himself with his head down. A girl with a purple mohawk yells död vänligen leende but he just turns around and rolls his eyes up in his head.

You had a friend that said he stinks because he buries his clothes for a week before a show, but you think it just smells clean, like turned earth after it rains, like the farm your uncle had outside Uppsala, summers spent wandering a child’s Valsgärde, chopping down barley and oat with tree-limb swords, on a journey with Leifur Eiriksson or Ingvar the Far-Travelled.

You snuck in a couple of Falcons and even though everybody says you can’t even get drunk off them you’re only seventeen and it doesn’t take very much. A few years later you’re talking to a girl from California and you say oh yeah it was a really amazing show, it was really just a privilege to have been there that night, and by that time you’ve told the story so many times that the edges have worn smooth. The whole thing was just twenty minutes and when you watched it on YouTube you didn’t remember a note of it, and all you can think of is that weird little boy with the pretty hair.


faked by March 29th, 2013


Jackson, Mississippi. Polaroid 600 (expired January 2005). Taken February 2013 at the UNWED TEENAGE MOTHERS video shoot.