Only those who have used an outhouse would appreciate this.
The Outhouse Poem by unknown author

The service station trade was slow
The owner sat around,
With sharpened knife and cedar stick
Piled shavings on the ground.

No modern facilities had they,
The log across the rill
Led to a shack, marked His and Hers
That sat against the hill.

"Where is the ladies restroom, Sir ?"
The owner leaning back,
Said not a word but whittled on,
And nodded toward the shack.



With quickened step she entered there
But only stayed a minute,
Until she screamed, just like a snake
Or spider might be in it.

With startled look and beet red face
She bounded through the door,
And headed quickly for the car
Just like three gals before.

She missed the foot log - jumped the stream
The owner gave a shout,
As her silk stockings, down at her knees
Caught on a sassafras sprout.

She tripped and fell - got up, and then
In obvious disgust,
Ran to the car, stepped on the gas,
And faded in the dust.

Of course we all desired to know
What made the gals all do
The things they did, and then we found
The whittling owner knew.

A speaking system he'd devised
To make the thing complete,
He tied a speaker on the wall
Beneath the toilet seat.

He'd wait until the gals got set
And then the devilish tike,
Would stop his whittling long enough,
To speak into the mike.

And as she sat, a voice below
Struck terror, fright and fear,
"Will you please use the other hole,
We're painting under here !"

It was still there
the old outhouse
on the edge
of the woods,

he saw, making
his way around it,
his eyes scanning
each part, each

memory soaked
into the wood
grown old.
He opened the door

and peered in.
The smell faded
through lack of use.
Cobwebs still hung there,

spiders raced
across the ground.
No other sound.
Memories stirred.

He and she had ***
here once; door locked
against the world,
against the nosey neighbours,

her parents, the night wind
and bright moon’s glow.
He can smell her scent still,
that smell she had,

fresh apples and hay.
He walked about
the small space,
his footsteps moved

over where once they lay.
Not planned, out of the passion
of that meeting, kissing
and holding, young flesh

stirred and the need
to be satisfied.
He leaned down
and put his fingers

across the ground,
rubbed where once
her buttocks rested,
her legs wide, her eyes

in shade of the semi dark,
her body captured
his juices in the passion’s tide.
Long since gone

she to some other place
that one night of ***
ingrained in his mind
and on the ground

and outhouse walls of wood.
He’d love to see her
here again and **** her
once more if he could.

Leg off the table
you red face recruit!
put on the offensive
and break down
the bolted door!
you are the soul saver
the peddle maker
the calibrator
with colored handbills
and front line
rhetoric

join the masquerade
in ivy league style!
politicking with
cunning guile
invisalign smile
blackened vile
bleeding the funnel
with gold plate omega
and crocodile shoes

get on stage
and dance you fool!
you are the headline maker
the pantomime juggler
the compromised closer
pull out that 5 page review
(bullet points only please)
and polish those weathered lines!

did you give it your all?
the door tags
and pleasantries
the tidings
and clippings
the irrevocable claims
and postured blames
all those impressionable basics
put to the test?

you know the call
(straight from
those cold academics)
the pie chart gurus
and contract killers
(complete with bone in finger)
whipping their
frenzied crew
in an all night
charade

old yellar
and the gatekeeper
sure seem amused
(sharpening their inquest
behind closed doors)
firing up the shiit storm
with those hostile priicks
and a slew
of insatiable
cures

there’s laughter from the back room
the dripping nose
and wavering hand
the cut white lines
and checkpoint tales
the pipeline romance
and lacking form
(of a basic essential
character!)

soundboard
and narratives
for logging time
slouching on the
steel case
over moot points
ready to play
the 3 weight
butter card
(if need be)

might I remind you
it’s only an inquiry
(with a slight hint of concern!)
surely no
malfeasance
or deception intended
so step back from
the melt down
and cut to the chase!

headlines to breadlines
penthouse to outhouse
those immoral pursuits
have taken their toll
(haven’t they?)
madman or rogue
(you take your pick)
for the scores
and tabulations
are final

shame on you
for the foul play
the bold hypocrisy
and order desk games
the back stabbing blames
and spurious names
just sign on the dotted line ~
this banter
is killing me

Anger,
as black as a hook,
overtakes me.
Each day,
each ****
took, at 8:00 A.M., a baby
and sauteed him for breakfast
in his frying pan.

And death looks on with a casual eye
and picks at the dirt under his fingernail.

Man is evil,
I say aloud.
Man is a flower
that should be burnt,
I say aloud.
Man
is a bird full of mud,
I say aloud.

And death looks on with a casual eye
and scratches his ****.

Man with his small pink toes,
with his miraculous fingers
is not a temple
but an outhouse,
I say aloud.
Let man never again raise his teacup.
Let man never again write a book.
Let man never again put on his shoe.
Let man never again raise his eyes,
on a soft July night.
Never. Never. Never. Never. Never.
I say those things aloud.

The cloud settles over the moor.
Scottish peaks and thistle
darkened to shadow;
voids within voids.

A sheet, a film
of papyrus copper
plays reality.
It approaches the single paned window,
the abandoned outhouse.

It is deserted here;
one-and-a-half living souls
‘cross the entire landscape.

The story is in the air,
the tension toiling my innards,
scaling my arms to gooseflesh
and my mind to trepidation.

She’s here.

She is here and at the window.

Please, I hope, please
let it be a billowing of plastic
caught in the wind, movements
stifled by a telegraph pole
or some other cursed sign of company.

Occluding mass, she hesitates
by the window, I daren’t look,
but she is there all the same,
wailing achingly silent for reprieve.

I know why she is here.
I see it:

Thick rope. Crude, unrelenting knots,
I feel them press, cut with friction
into my wrists, twine like snakes,
devoiding me of life

one eternal day after another.
He prowls the door from time to time,
I fear it but it’s all that I have
save for the songs of the Tree Sparrows
that warm the winter.

He comes in to shed light to the room,
brings bread and milk, sometimes fruit.
More often than not he brings just himself,
presses me to the cold floor,

tries to make me feel something real,
demands my artificial praise.
He climaxes quickly, fills me with life, he says,
clutches my ***** hair, wracked with lice
and pregnant with the renewed hope

of his mercy.

None coming, I’m returned to my holster,
a stool upon an opened barrel,
I leave my messes behind,
the stench rising between my legs

and surrounding my senses,
until all of my life is nothing more
than excrement. Recycled, lived once
and then forevermore.

I live in my mind. Only the single-paned
window in this outhouse
offering an alternative;
most usually slate grey skies
and a barrage of hail upon the tin roof.

Outside of the window, I know
that life is something else. No books,
no words, no love, no music;
yet the weak Scottish light still
pierces the glass,

light always finds a way.

And then one day or one passage of time,
it matters not,
my hero, my villain, my father,
came to me no more.

I rejoiced. I rejoiced in my starvation,
the waste of my muscle,
the overflow of the toilet bowl,
skin reddened and bruised and eaten.

No one would come, if indeed there was anyone at all,
I knew that.

So I waited for death,
as death had waited for me.
We greeted each other as friends,
archaic pen-pals, acquainted at last,

I embraced his touch,
felt more life in death than life
had ever cared to bestow.

I kissed death on the lips,
told him of my long-sought desire for him.
He turned, a glint of silver,

and I found myself
on the other side of the single paned window.

Looking in, I saw only my regret.
The stool, the barrel, the waste
that had strewn the floor,
had surmised my life.

It was a sight unfit to un-see,
and so I stood in my perfect sanctuary,
never turned to look and face the light,
and instead stayed only to lament.

And so now I look into the old outhouse,
decades of decay improve its sight.
Old moss gathers over the fingernail marks
that I had carved so desperately
into the flooring.

Forevermore I stare upon my regrets,
forevermore I opaque myself
in half-existent smoke,
tapping on the window.

Upon this I look, a deep plunge of horror;
my heart freezes in frame,
upon a young woman’s face,
no more than fourteen years.

It is locked in a scream, a sense of despair,
eternal and rite, forever in shame.
A life lived in terror, naught but a tirade
of brutish **** and desperate privation.

We lock eyes for a moment,
enough proof thus,
that there is life beyond misery,
if one cares to look.

As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.

Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,

And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall--
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,

Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.

The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser--
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.

Goodbye Charlie, Hello Vietnam.

Nineteen. I was ten and nine. Two A.M. Landed in some muggy, putrid place. Between honor and complete disgrace. Smelled like that for sure.  Issued tools of our trade. Heard the true sound of “rockets red glare”. Had us hunkering in bunkers all night. ******* in our helmets. Holding our ears. ****, the first night. Welcome to Vee-et-nam.

Morning. Sunshine and quiet. Except the rap from old timers. “Newbies“. New jungle fatigues. Newbies. New M-16. Clean boots. All day the old timers, telling each other how these newbies had their cherry popped. First night in country and the biggest *** mortar attack they had ever seen. Heard. Heard, I said. Yeah. What newbie? Now you have heard the real rockets’ red glare. That’s what you heard, Newbie.

I get it. Newbies are ****. We are **** and they aren’t going to waste a breath telling us anything. Watch. Watch and learn. I hope. Lines. Lines to get our teeth rinsed with fluoride. Lines. To chow. To get more shots. To in country orientation. Lines. Memorize lines. Lines to get ammo. Lines to get orders.

No line at the outhouse. Gray three seater. Heat roasting our ****. Old timer kicked the planks before he sat down beside me in the stench. I asked the question but only with my eyes. Kick the planks before you sit down so rats won’t bite your ***** off. Kick the planks to scare off the rats. Rats. The size of possum. Not an exaggeration. Possum rats. Rat possums. Who the hell knew? Just kick the planks. Save your *****.

More lines. Then darkness. Then more booms. Not incoming. Our own. 1-5-5s. Learn the difference newbie so you don’t crap your drawers for nothing. That’s the boys in that artillery firebase keeping Charlie awake for the night. Returning the favor. Charlie. Sounds like a name you would call someone who was a buddy doesn’t it? Charlie. Victor Charlie. V C. ***** Charlie. **** Charlie. Charlie this and Charlie that. Oh, Charlie would eat that rat.

My first duty. Guarding Charlie. Prisoner with leg blown off at the knee in our clean smelling dispensary. Hands strapped to bed rails. MP and I assigned night shift. Keep each other awake . Looked at Charlie. Charlie looked at me. Smirk. Then spit. Landed on my boot. My newbie boot. Not a newbie boot anymore. Charlie squirms. Spits again and misses. MP gets up and threatens to bash Charlie in Charlie’s little head. Medic comes and gives squirming, smirking, spitting Charlie shot of good drugs. Charlie doesn’t spit on medic. Charlie gets drowsy. I get drowsy. MP falls asleep. I stand up. Newbie afraid to fall asleep on guard duty. I wake the MP before shift change. Charlie is up. Smirk, smirk. Thus spoke Charlie. The only conversation I ever had with Charlie.

Medic says Charlie getting on a bird to someplace. Can’t remember where. Anyplace.   Charlie leaving and me staying. Ain’t that a hoot--all it cost him was a boot. Envy is a word I learned that day. Cost him part of a leg medic says when I tell him I wish I was Charlie just then. Had heard tales about people shooting off their toes to get out of the ‘nam. “**** tales” I would call them, since I heard so many in those gray crappers. Rats. Possum rats and your *****. ***** or a limb? Did I really want to be him? I don’t really remember. I didn’t want to be there--somewhere between honor and complete disgrace. Bye Charlie. Hello Vietnam.

Freezing dusk is closing
    Like a slow trap of steel
On trees and roads and hills and all
    That can no longer feel.
        But the carp is in its depth
          Like a planet in its heaven.
        And the badger in its bedding
          Like a loaf in the oven.
        And the butterfly in its mummy
          Like a viol in its case.
        And the owl in its feathers
          Like a doll in its lace.

Freezing dusk has tightened
    Like a nut ******* tight
On the starry aeroplane
    Of the soaring night.
        But the trout is in its hole
          Like a chuckle in a sleeper.
        The hare strays down the highway
          Like a root going deeper.
        The snail is dry in the outhouse
          Like a seed in a sunflower.
        The owl is pale on the gatepost
          Like a clock on its tower.

Moonlight freezes the shaggy world
    Like a mammoth of ice -
The past and the future
    Are the jaws of a steel vice.
        But the cod is in the tide-rip
          Like a key in a purse.
        The deer are on the bare-blown hill
          Like smiles on a nurse.
        The flies are behind the plaster
          Like the lost score of a jig.
        Sparrows are in the ivy-clump
          Like money in a pig.

Such a frost
    The flimsy moon
        Has lost her wits.

          A star falls.

The sweating farmers
    Turn in their sleep
        Like oxen on spits.

I'm no good at this
and my cabin doesn't help.

Decades of dirt and grime,
a decaying outhouse,
cobwebs and insects,
windows nearly opaque:
Cabin, you are lovely,
but you are filthy.

I am in urgent need
of a French maid
(uniform optional)
or maybe just
a compassionate
and tidy friend.

Or, probably, I'll just continue
not to look too closely.

Ah, the bachelor's life!
  - mce

i found
that suburbian
love-seats
couldn’t hold
the kind of love
i was searching
for

and ***
between
crumbling
couch cushions
slowly became a
tedious night ritual:

mountain
ranges told
me from a
first-time-
glance that
i was worth
more than

a subtle
  "thank
     you.”
whispered
     into the
      curve of my
            breast.

so i left home
with holes in
my pockets
and a period
of harsh
abstinence
hanging over
my chest like

a ******* sword.

I often wondered what thoughts were running through his head
as he stared out the window chained to the floor by his bed
watching the gallows being built that would soon seal his fate.
Was he planning at that very moment his last great escape?
Did he know then that his hanging would never come to be?  
Did he know then that before nightfall once again he'd be free?
What ever his thoughts he was interrupted rudely
by Deputy Bob Ollinger, one of his guards while in custody.
"Word has it you said that if we ever met again you'd **** me on the spot.
Well here I am Kid. Now's your chance. Show me what you've got.
It's a shame that you'll hang in another week or two,
because I'd love to be the one who gets to **** you.
I've got 16 silver dimes in each barrel of my shotgun.
I'd love to try them out on you, but I can't unless you run.
If I free you from those chains will you run for the door?
Oh by the way Kid, your Ma was one sweet ******* *****.
I'll **** you before you hang Kid. That's a sure bet."
"Be careful Bob," said the Kid, "I'm not hung yet."
" Bob thrusted his shotgun hard into Billy's gut.
The Kid looked up at him in pain and said, "Now what?"
"Don't do it Bob," Bell said angrily, "or you'll be the one who'll hang for sure
for killing a man in cold blood who was chained helplessly to the floor.
It's time for the other prisoners to be escorted across the street to be fed.
The Kid's not going anywhere. He's chained to the floor by his bed.
Anyway, I took the prisoners last so now it's your turn.
Go and have yourself a beer and I'll stay here and guard the Kid until you return.
Bob Ollinger placed his shotgun into the gun rack.
Before he left he said to Billy, "I'll see you when I get back."
No one can say for sure if the above dialog ever truly took place.
One thing's for sure. Ollinger tormented Billy at a merciless endless pace.
They were arch enemies who fought against each other during the Lincoln County War.
Ollinger was in the posse that killed John Tunstall, Billy's employer, friend and mentor.
"I have to use the privy Bell," Billy said to the deputy.
Bell kept his rifle trained on Billy as he tossed him the key.
Billy unlocked the chains that kept him bound to the floor.
Still in handcuffs and leg irons, Bell escorted Billy out the door.
Billy entered the outhouse closing the door behind him.
"Let's not take too long in there Kid," Bell said with a humorous grin.
While in the outhouse Billy managed to slip one of his hands out of his handcuff.
"You fall in there Kid," Bell laughed, "You've been in there long enough."
"I'm coming out now Bell," Billy said opening the door.
"Sorry I took so long Bell. I must have ate something bad for sure."
Deputy Bell then escorted Billy back to the jail cell.
Once inside, Billy spun around and smacked hard Deputy James Bell.
Bell lost his balance, dropped his rifle and was momentarily stunned.
"Hands Up Bell!," the Kid yelled. In his hand was a gun.
"Please don't do it Bell," Billy pleaded, but Bell tried to run.
The Kid had no choice but to do what had to be done.
He shot and killed Bell, then went for Ollinger's shotgun.
The Kid never found pleasure in killing, but Ollinger was indeed the exception.
Knowing that Ollinger heard the gunfire, Billy stood by the window
and waited for Ollinger to appear in the street down below.
One senior named Godfrey saw Bell fall dead down the stairs.
The moment probably gave Godfrey a few more grey hairs.
Ollinger ran out into the street as Godfrey screamed, "The Kid's killed Bell!"
Ollinger looked up into both barrels of his own shotgun and whispered,
"Now he's killed me as well."
"Hello Bob!," Billy called out with a song in his heart just prior to blowing Bob Ollinger apart.
He blasted both barrels into Ollinger's chest and face.
Pieces of old Bob lay scattered all over the place.
Billy smashed his shotgun in two, threw it at him but missed.
"You'll never rifle me again," he screamed, "you *******!"
On the balcony he addressed the crowd whose jaws hung agape.
"I don't want to hurt anyone, but I'll **** anybody who tries to prevent my escape."
In the office he found a sledge hammer and smashed the chains of his leg irons free.
He told Godfrey to fetch him a fast horse immediately.
As he walked down the stairs, he came upon Bell's lifeless body
and many eye witnesses admit
that The Kid looked upon him and said most remorsefully,
"I'm sorry I killed you Bell, but couldn't help it."
As Billy mounted the horse the chains of his leg irons startled the beast.
The horse reared up and threw Billy down onto the street.
He was at this point his most vulnerable laying down on the ground.
The crowd could have overtaken him easily, but none made a move or a sound.
Once again Billy mounted the horse and fled with the sound of his leg iron chains ringing.
Many say that as he rode out of Lincoln County that they heard the Kid singing.
Billy had escaped danger so many other times in his past,
but this was his greatest escape ever. It would also be his last.

They were paid a dollar but taxed to a dime
That's why they should ****
on company time.

Twas a southern Christmas and from the front porch to the outhouse, everyone was stirring, even a field mouse. Socks were hung over the fire place with care, hoping they would soon be dry there. Grand maw was in the kitchen holding juniors nose, so he would take some caster oil I suppose. Mom was running around with curlers in her hair, if old Saint Nick saw her he would get quiet a scare. Dad and his brother in law were out of the house, hunting for a trophy buck to brag about. While grand paw was out in the barn, turning the yearly corn harvest into moon shine. A little home made spirit to give all some good cheer. So when you think Christmas is strange at your house, just remember how we celebrate Christmas down south.

The comfort of my home is perhaps the one thing I miss the most. The protection of a grand, two-story house stocked with food of all sorts was replaced by an old, abandoned shack that held the same warmth our house once had. This house only had a fireplace as a source of light and heat.
     One day, my boyfriend, Jeremy, ran into our room in the midst of one of my naps. His dark hair was a mess, his white t-shirt torn and his blue jeans soaking wet. He shook me awake, and before allowing me to sit up and respond, he whispered instructions in my ear.
     “We have to be out of here within three minutes. Food, soap, anything, go, I’ll explain soon, we need to leave, let’s go,” He said, speaking faster than I could understand.      
     I grabbed the comforter that was folded at the foot of the bed, some pants and sweaters for each of us, then booked it down the hall to the bathroom to get soap and toothbrushes, and shuffled downstairs to the kitchen.
    What is happening? He is never this serious... Maybe it’s the drugs speaking; I could **** his stupid brother for doing this to him. What do I use every day, what can’t we live without, how long will this last, what is going on?
     “Jeremy, what is this about?” I screamed to him, wherever he had disappeared off to in the house. My hands were shaking as I tried to collect a series of food, panic driving through my body.
     “Shhh,” he whispered in my ear behind me. I spun and screamed. I dropped the collection of food I had gathered in my arms. He dropped two hiker backpacks at my feet, one landing with a loud thud noise, a heavy object inside. “Don’t ask about that,” he kicked the bag with his boot, then picked up the empty one and held it open to me, “fit everything you can into this bag.”    
     Tears sprung to my eyes as I quietly dropped the necessities from upstairs into the bottom of the empty bag. I collected the food off the floor and threw it in the bag with the mysterious object inside.
     He kissed my forehead gently and he held my face in his hands. A strong smell wafted off his hands. I winced at the sour odour. “What did you—” My voice cracked, tears spilling down my cheeks.
     Jeremy hung his head down, and I saw a tear drop run down his face. “We have to go. I’ll tell you on the way. Just, promise you’ll stay by my side. I need to protect you, I love you, Becky.” He whispered.
     This is the man who has seen me and promised me he would stick with me through everything. I can’t possibly deny him this one thing. But I’m so scared, what has he done…
     The heavily wooded area was a maze that was easy to get lost in. We ran in silence for three kilometres to the tree line. The leaves were almost completely detached from the trees, making it easier to see far deeper, though the same brown-black bark was confusing to separate from each tree. Unfamiliar territory was much harder for me to feel comfortable in, and my stomach was already flipping and turning from the news that my boyfriend would soon tell me.
     Once we had a clear idea of where we were going—a dirt path that looked to be a driveway had met the middle of a thick tree line—our nerves seemed to settle. I was ready to hear whatever he had to tell me, and I knew we could work together. What scared me the most was the seriousness he had instructed me with; that we had to leave the comfort of our home and run away.
     “Okay. You know the Mortimer’s always had something against me, right?” I nodded at the thought. The man who lived four houses away from ours, Josh Mortimer, had a strong dislike for Jeremy. “I was coming out of work today, and Josh and his bulky brother, Dennis, were waiting by my car in the parking lot. They looked pretty ******* about something, so I asked them what was going on, and Dennis grabbed me and pinned me against the car.” Jeremy sat down on a log, trying to catch his breath. His head rested in his hands, avoiding the concern written on my face. “I, uh… A fight broke out…” He rubbed his eyes with his ***** hands, and he looked up at me with a mixture of emotions, from fear, to regret and remorse, and such a deep, looming sadness. “…I killed them…”
     My heart started to skip. His eyes never looked away from mine as we held the stare that lasted for eternity. My knees wobbled and buckled beneath me. The back of my head hit the ground with a loud crack and darkness washed over me.

     I awoke to a wooden, white washed ceiling that was lined with two by fours, and the walls were built of thick tree trunks, stacked horizontally. The floor was similar to the ceiling; various types of trees were cut down into two by fours and laid together.
     I was lying on a *****, scrapped mattress, my hiker backpack sat at my side. Wrapped in the comforter from home and laying in front of a fireplace with the crackling sound brought me some sort of familiarity in this unknown place. The fire produced enough light to illuminate the large room with a lack of furniture. Across from the fireplace was a large window that had no view really; it just faced dozens of trees.
     Gathering some energy, I raised my head, which pounded with pain. Discomfort washed over me, as well as confusion. How did I get here? Where the hell am I? What is this place? It’s eerily frightening. Are we trespassing? It looks as though no one has lived here for years, though. Ugh, what is that smell!
    An unpleasant stench had found its way to me. It smelled like iron—that hard, unique smell that… Wait. I felt the back of my head, where I had hit the ground. My fingers twisted through my matted hair to an oozing cut that stung to touch. I pulled my hand away immediately and looked at it. My stomach flipped again. My fingers were almost dripping with thick crimson. The stench overtook me, causing me to fall back on my injury and immediately cry out in pain.
     Suddenly, an echoing series of tapping noises came from behind me. It was a hollow tapping sound, with a steady beat, like a pencil tapping a desk. The sound travelled through the wall, near the ceiling of the wall, all the way to the doorway.
     “Jeremy?” I whispered. My head spun as I climbed to my feet. The mattress was wedged in a corner, against the wall where the noises were contained, inside the two rooms. The tapping subdued, and summoning up the courage, I walked along the wall for support towards the door. I grasped the wooden stump used as a doorknob, counted to three slowly and turned it open, expecting the worst.
     The light of the fireplace danced against the door and reflected into the room. It was empty, except for the navy blue curtain that framed the window. The curtain was billowing in the wind, as the window was open wide. I crossed the poorly lit room to the window, my footsteps almost silent on the floor, and shut it.
     In the next room over, I heard a slam against the outside wall. I jumped, terrified of what could be in that room. Calm down, I need to calm down. It’s a windy night. Maybe it’s Jeremy trying to scare me. It was awfully unsettling to tell me he killed someone, and disappear without a word…
     I shuffled back to the fire, where I felt the most comfort. My eyes were fixated on the doorknob, as I was just waiting for it to turn itself and the door to creak open, inviting me in. Jeremy would wait on the other side of it; emerge from the darkness with the gun he hid in the bag, the one he told me not to worry about earlier, that gun he shot the Mortimer brothers with.
     I drew my legs towards my chest and started to cry quietly. I’m in a strange place, no idea where I am, or how to get home. My boyfriend is a murderer. He’s on the run. He wants to **** me because he couldn’t not tell me what he did. He would just tell me and **** me to get it over with, and he could live alone forever with the secret in his mind, and no one else will know.
     My mind cleared as my eyes got lost in the pattern of the flames. I checked my watch for the time, but there were about seven more hours until daylight. I was unaware as to how long I had been awake, but my nerves had calmed completely. I needed to go the bathroom.
     There was bound to be an outhouse around the outside of the cabin. I was reluctant at first, but I had to venture out into the darkness. I fished a sweater out of my backpack, and cautiously walked outside.
     The full moon was right above me, breaking through the tree cover to offer some light. Curious of its location, I tiptoed around the corner of the cabin, trying to find a path to the outhouse. Owls perched high above me hooted, and a weird screech echoed throughout the trees far away. I felt my way along the outside of the house, around the other corner, and stopped suddenly where I stood.
     A dark figure swayed through the moonlight, hovering just above the ground. My heart jumped into my throat as I heard the sound of the rope rubbing on the tree branch. Squealing, swaying, dancing in the darkness. I fled, unable to run from whatever was going on. I couldn’t trek out into the forest—I was trapped.
     Tears blinded me as I ran, completely defenceless. I’m going to die. The pounding of my heart was deafening. I need shelter, I need light. I ran inside, the last place I really wanted to go. There is something wrong with this place. An owl’s dark shadow fluttered and silhouetted outside of the cracked window. Need to keep the fire alive..
     I tripped and fell onto the mattress, sliding up against the gate that protected the fire. The gust of wind blanketed the fire momentarily. No! It can’t go out! I held my breath until the fire continued to flicker and pop.
     From behind me there were voices—whispers coming from the broken window. The forest was coming alive and was going to **** me like it killed Jeremy and no one would ever find us.
     A rustling noise occurred from the other side of the wall in the unexplored room, and soon it climbed around the outside walls. I need to hide myself where there are no windows. The doors seemed to lock from the inside. I need to lock myself in a room, somewhere safe, quiet, away from whatever is outside. The screeching continued to gain pitch until it buzzed inside of my head and the pain was excruciating.
     I grabbed the backpack of food and ran to the door that I hadn’t tried to open before. The doorknob didn’t open the first time. The noises got louder. My palms were slippery with sweat as I attempted to turn the **** clockwise and counter-clockwise in quick motions.
     “Open, ******!” I shoved my weight against the door as I turned it. The door gave about an inch and stopped, as if there was something on the other side of it that disabled the door from swinging open any further.
     Suddenly, for the first time since I left home, there was silence. There was no wind blowing through the cracked windows, nothing rustling through the trees, the buzzing noise had stopped. My heartbeat skipped once, as I stared through the crack in the door.
     A soft cry escaped from the other side. Wait, is there someone else here? How did she get in past me? Maybe I am trespassing after all, and this girl is scared because she heard someone screaming in her house.
     The little girl’s cry caught in her throat, and then she coughed. I couldn’t see her at all through the space in the door. “Hello? Can I come in, please?” I pushed the door again, this time it shifted, allowing me full view of the room.
     The only furniture was a dark wooden bed, draped with a black sheet. A young girl, dressed in a white nightgown, with choppy black hair kneeled facing away from me. Her breathing was heavy, and when she heard my voice, she perked up from the slouch on her knees.
     “Who are you?” Her small voice twisted, and she cocked her head to the side and swung it around to look at me. The whites of her wide eyes were yellow, and her face was covered in gashes and black bruises. The front of her dress was soaking with fresh dark, red blood.
     Slowly, I closed the door, and leaned back against it, letting out a few deep breaths. The fire was almost completely burned out, leaving the room extremely dark. The desire for comfort washed over me, so I trudged through the plants that covered the forest floor, towards the hanging body.
     I reached for the rope that was slung tight around Jeremy’s neck, standing on the ***** of my feet. Color was drained from his face, except for the precious blue of his eyes. Using all my strength, the knot came undone on the second pull, and the body dropped to the ground into a collection of bushes. Gently, I unravelled him from the tangled bushes unscathed. Preparing to pull, I wrapped my arms around his forearms and dragged him around the corner of the house. His weight had felt as though it had doubled; I had to stop a few times to catch my breath.
     The sun had just broken the horizon, an orange glow seeping through the trees. Songbirds had started to sing. “Do you hear that? Isn’t it beautiful?” I whispered in Jeremy’s ear, holding his hand in mine. The comforter had kept us both warm while we slept, as the fire was completely burned out when Jeremy and I had come inside in the night. “I like it here; I want to stay forever.” I smiled.

A tattered bird had a made a tomb
in tepid water, it was a puddle
near the framework of a half-built room—
but the soul’s a swerving tunnel

and the dead are waiting at the end:
all sorts of animals huddled at the fringe
where littered pine needles stand
and creep inside the sandy construction site,

pale in the morning light,
the tractors dug aesthetic swirls in the sand—
a culvert keeps the brook alive,
it flows into the forest, which learns to mend

its scars with the festering of its things:
kingfishers’ **** on the berries and branches,
if the plants could undo their own stink
the heart wouldn’t die on its haunches—

the morning’s dew resolves to hoary ice,
its killing the greenery,
but the sandblasters lean, arranged by the outhouse, like
a dream, the first worker arrives early

he rests against a smooth-planed board—
flood the mind, but be sure to drain it out,
its his breakfast cup of tea that stores
his knowledge of beauty

past the place where the bushes are thin
there is an apple orchard, plucked to pieces at the end of fall—
trees arranged in ranks, held up with wires and strings:
a dementia arboreal—

the smells from the orchard meet
the smells from the machines and hover
above the building-zone, mixing with the bite
of cold humidity—a cruel kind of vapor

Outside Burgos
in the base camp
after seeing the cathedral
and other sights

and having a beer
and a burger
at the bar
you went to a small disco

and danced a few hours
then went with Mamie
back to the tents
the moon quite bright

like a new coin
on a black cloth
and Mamie said
I can’t remember

where mine is
where what is?
you asked
my tent

my ****** tent
what do you think I meant?
where about were you?
I don’t know

we were only there
half hour or so
she moaned
and it was raining

and I was cold
and the girl
I was sharing with
was one hell of a misery

you could with me
but I’m with that young army guy
she looked at your tent
and said

where is he now?
inside maybe
you said
or out getting plastered

can’t he find
someplace else to sleep?
she said
don’t think he’d do that

some how
you said
well help me find my tent then
she moaned

ok I will
you said
and off you went with her
in the semi dark

walking between tents
trying to discover
her tent
out of so many

wait
she said
after five minutes
I remember we were near

an outhouse
because she moaned
about the smell
of ***** and such

and she pointed to a tent
over the field
near a small outhouse
where people

were coming and going
that’s it
she said
there

and so she ran ahead
to the tent
and unzipped it
yes this is it

she said excitedly
but she’s not here
do you want to come in
for awhile?

you studied her face
and eyes and that
hair of hers
and said

sure why not
maybe she won’t be back
maybe she’ll fine
some other tent to sleep

not her
Mamie said
she’ll be back
the moaning cow

but why she’s out
we can at least
get down to kissing
and things

sure
you said
entering the tent
behind her gazing

at her pink hot pants
whatever fate brings.

I fell asleep
To the smell of antiseptic,
Sterilizer, biogesic,
And the cold touch of metal
Rods that only seem
To grow colder
With the touch of hospital
Left in the student's
Ward - a whistle

Permeates the silence
Of seniors
Painlessly sleeping away
Hours upon
Hours until graduation -
A coming of age -
An escapism from past papers
And teachers who have
Themselves given up
On them.

And the lights you
See are as bright
And as empty as those blinking
Feebly
In that of the school doctor's
Office, one not really
Blinking more of
Washed, and supported
Wobbling by daylight
Seeping in through peeling blinds,
Unable to see too much -
The headaches and stomachaches
Have rendered him numb
To the feeling.

And lunch comes
And out blows the whistle to
Signify the end
Of playtime for
The young ones, start
Of playtime for
The older ones,

Whistle blowing muffled
By the septic tank glass
Doors of this sacred outhouse,
Wards muffling the cries of children
As they flee the quadrangle,
Once mad, twice elated,
Still innocent, untired,
Not needing to fake sick
And rest their heads softly

Upon thin soft beds with
Towels wrapped haphazardly
Behind their backs,
Nostalgia, it was

Laughter, I swear it was louder
When we used to run,
When our eyes lit up like
The sun petering in through
The doctor's orifices,

When our bruises and bumps
Smelled like betadine,
Not sleep
And cups of sterile water downed
To mask the scent of
Fake cough syrup,
And cuts gotten from fiddled syringes,
Bruised ankles
Bent over undersized beds,

And not running over
Uneven pavement,
Ankles brushing tablecloth,
Schoolbag,
Basketball and frisbee,

And the screaming.

Oh, how I miss
The screaming.

This woman I know had a fox that lived in her root cellar. She'd knock on the door to let it know she was going to enter, and the fox would vacate temporarily to allow her time to store or remove canning jars. She ceased to leave her root vegetables down there, as they would nearly always become part the fox's nesting material. The fox had raised several litters in that cellar and my friend was always certain never to bother her distinguished guest while she had pups. The root cellar was under the house which was built half off a cliff and was cattywampus. It had lots of cracks in the siding and in places was missing planks altogether. This allowed mice easy access, and since my lady friend was such a fine cook, there were hoards. This served the fox well, who would keep at least the underside of the rickety cabin free of vermin. My friend could never keep a cat because of the fox naturally, though she did try to employ several. They would never stay. I had always tried to make repairs on the cabin, much to my friend's chagrin. Seemed she had an aversion to any change she didn't instigate herself, and was quite particular about not having any modern materials come her way. Any suggestion of modern convenience and you'd be read the riot act. She liked things, "organic," and her whole lifestyle, with the exception cheap cigarettes and tequila, exuded such.

One day, county officials came and put a red tag on her house. This meant the home was not in accordance with sanitation laws, on account there was no septic, just an old outhouse down the hill past the garden. Being that my friend had little to no income really, her "lifestyle," was in sudden jeopardy of being uprooted. Some kindly folks pulled together to be certain our friend did not lose her home. She got a new indoor toilet, a septic tank, and some siding to keep the mice out. Never once did she use that toilet, always kept the outhouse. The fox left on account the mice population dwindled. My friend keeps her root cellar well stocked now and whenever I visit, we laugh about that fox and enjoy some fine pickled snap beans. Change isn't always easy, but living easy is sometimes worth a few changes.

T’was the night before Christmas
And in his outhouse
Sat Ja quietly listening        
To waltz’s, by Strauss.
(Really, he was leafing thru Penthouse)

The ******* was fitted
With all manner of lights
That couldn’t be missed
No matter what heights

When up on the roof
There arose such a clatter
Ja, kicked open the door
To see what was the matter

So there sat Ja
With his pants pulled down
His *** in a hole
On his forehead, a frown

He leaped up so quickly
Through the doorway to pass
Tripped over his pants
And fell on his ***

Then flat on his back
His bare *** in the snow
He looked up to see
The roof all aglow

Poor Santa had landed                        
On that, small, sloped roof
But there wasn’t enough room
For sleigh, and each tiny hoof

Ja had decorated everything
So the outhouse, shone bright
And Santa mistook it
When he arrived that night

The reindeer slid off
Were hanging by their straps
And Santa had saved them
By grabbing, the roof *****

Poor Rudolph fell the farthest
Boy, was his nose beaming
Just then, losing his grip
Santa started screaming

Fly Dancer, fly *****
Fly Donner, fly Blitzen
Don’t let me fall into
This ****, Ja was fixin

Then just like magic
They started to float
And Santa, raising his fist
Did this warning shout
              
Be very careful old man
I’ll get you some day
Stay alert Christmas Eve
Don’t get in my way

Now, each Christmas Eve
Ja, won’t step foot out that door
Cause he knows Santa is waiting
To even the score
BOEMS BY JA 18

The Harvest Bow

As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.

Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,

And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,

Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.

The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.

by Seamus Heaney

It was bothering him the noise that came at night from outhouse
He didn’t give it much notice in the barn was a lot of mouse
Just wondered why in the day he would hear none of the sound
But it all started with him on the bed and the lunar path westbound.

As the grandfather clock chimed past twelve he kept counting the gong
It was about time to ***** up his ears the music would soon play along
The glass windowpane brought him the sky with stars all over firmament
Shaken out of wits he would tell himself it couldn’t be done by rodent.

Night after night it went on happening he couldn’t wish away with a laugh
It reached him one night to his patience’s end he said enough is enough
With his gun and torch he left the bed the truth for once he must learn
Who played the music regular midnight was somebody there in the barn?

He made his way through the shrub laden path under a half-lit moon
To find what it was that robbed his peace the source of the pestering croon
The outhouse loomed eerily in semidarkness a magic of night’s artistry
The man wondered what was hidden within what piece of baffling mystery.

Just as his shadow fell on the door floating in the crescent moon
The wind hushed off descended a lull stopped abruptly the tune
Nerves frayed in the nightly trudge his brows furrowed in doubt
He shrugged it off unlocked the door the fact must be found out.

A yawning black swallowed him with the smell of years’ dust
It took a while to see past it for his strained eyes to adjust
Then he remembered the torch in his hand his only aid for light
He pressed it on in the beamed circle caught the piano’s sight.

*Lying un-strummed for ages the piano had stood the time’s test
Playing host to its squeaking mates turning itself to their nest
They gaily treaded on the undead keys the notes were sheer fun
Their plot was uncovered on that night without the use of a gun.

KICKING THE BUCKET

The moon has fallen
asleep in a bucket

can't get back out despite
trying to slide over the rim.

It trembles as a train
thunders past midnight.

A child tries to catch it
its tiny hand plunging

through another dimension
through to its nothingness.

The moon takes its chance and
escapes to the sky with a splash.

It's all gone now
( the barn of course )

but the house...the child...that moon
are no longer to be found.

Strange to think
a house can die.

A tree enters through
the kitchen window

lays
its head upon a table.

The bedroom
is without its roof.

A door still stands
without its walls.

It bangs in the breeze
a surreal morse code.

The living room is home
to a family of nettles.

A sofa moulders
a new line in zombie furniture.

A hare stands upon a chair
barely able to hold itself together.

One of the chair's legs
genuflects to a sunset.

The hare hops upon
the rotting table top

enters the tree's head
and leaves upon its branches.

Somehow the bucket
survives.

Still standing outside
the outhouse.

It is full of storm
right to the brim.

It holds within itself
the moon of now.

Trains no longer
thunder by.

I, that child
now - this man

let the moon
splash through my man

before throwing it
into the night's sky.

Always wanted to do that
before I kicked the bucket.

The HUM-BUZZIN' 0f a newspaper flywheel-press
What jarred up BUZZIN' slanders will these stories hold?
On Newspaper traps where tortured minds are stuck and sold!
Where lowered human beings are treated less

On almost every city corner news is sought
Those ugly outhouse lookin' shacks disperse,
Smelly rotten things not found in beauty verse
The sensation of broken wing-ged offical caught

Garbage boy, toss my garbage at my door,
maggot level I will bend,
And claw-fetch the news of bitter end
And saaaavoooor the nasty things in store

First hunting trip in years
Wondering if I have the stamina,
The fortitude to stay in a cabin,
To hunt in the cold,
To find my way in unknown woods...
To use an outhouse.

I have grown accustomed to amenities:
A steady furnace, heated water,
Television, books, phone,
Internet, WiFi, Cable,
A garage,
You.

For a weekend
I decided to try myself,
To test resolve,
To see if there might still remain
A little hardiness.

The long drive took us out of range
Of television,
Most radio,
Cell coverage,
Running tap water,
Toilets with flush handles,
My bidet.

Gas light, wood fire
Illuminated and warmed
Dimly, slowly.
My bed frosted until midnight.

At 1:00 my bladder sent the signal;
I arose, donned boots and coat,
Forayed to the shack outback.

Wind rushing in the tall trees,
Snow crunching beneath me,
Ice on the door,
Dark of night,
Dread without,
Within.

In minutes, business done.
Outside, breeze soughing,
Sighing in tree tops.

Singing ice stopped me
Beneath the stars:
Siren song of resonating ice,
Ice-glazed lake's expansive song
Filling me with wonder.

Cold, I could not linger,
Walked back
To hunker in blankets,
Old and wool,
As the ice-song lingered.

It was a normal two scorpion and one rattlesnake day at 112° in Wichita Falls , Texas .
Texas . . . they made Hell out of the good parts of Texas and the rest of the state just went there . Fortunately my parents only went there so my little sister could be born there . We left the great state of Texas and moved to the incestuous state of Alabama .
Where the impossible will always remain the same . And the possible will be banned , outlawed , and perpetuated behind countless barns , toolsheds , and the outhouse known as Montgomery , the State Capitol . Called the Heart of Dixie (it should be called ******* of Dixie and thank God for Mississippi , for they have wrest that title away from us . But we gave it a-hell-a-va-fight .)
We are a multicolored society . We have white (the pressence of all color) and black (the absence of all color). Which is strange now because the black people are called colored and the white people are called all kinds of blacked out names (usually on court documents).
Alabama is proud of it's educational system . We measure one's intelligence by how soon they leave the state for better opportunities . In Alabama an educated person is a four letter word , like ******* , or worse . Oops !
Let me see now . . . one , two , three , four . . . got to tale off my shoe  . . . five , six , seven . . . wait a minute . . . ******* ? . . . is that one or two words .

And then they can't write anymore. They turn their faces dangling  hthreads. They are no fight and no three musketeer. There is no buddy system when you're playing for one, and your keyboard is pocked with burn marks from writing and falling asleep and writing and falling asleep; Apple and H have been missing and the Space Bar, V, and B are on their way out. The positives have become absolutelies. The women abandoned the children and their children, and dinosaurs have eaten the rest. Rest with the wicked and the wind and the women you black-tip reef shark of **** and dross and wickedness(x2), you scratch 'n' sniff barracuda for poor kitchen sink, outhouse, washer/dryer, and wet bar maintenance for a low-cost of ninety-nine dollars and nine cents; the joke is better when the numbers are written out in ink. It **** across teenagers better- that is what I mean. Nineteen year olds specifically, passion possessed, beautiful creators of 2008 and 2009. I should be about  ready to shuffle my feet, curl up my gray socks, and shepherd a Wheaties Box, donning a frog costume, with a homemade iron-on Jesus patch. It was in a box with some pogs and Michael Jordan Valentine's Day cards that I wrote to everyone that fit the profile for my Mother, at least until I turned nineteen. The magical age where even the catholic girls have found out that they're already going to hell-

-

I relive the natures of so many marauders from unclassifiable ***** that I can still taste in my mouth. Sometimes it's a fever other times it's my initials scribbled along the walls. Inquire and we'll dine, lie supine, intertwine; you can teach me about cooperative.

While you were once the queen in the body's sore sorts and blisters from insatiable bear. I'm ready to **** a lion. I'm attracted to your spine and the positions that we've lied in. The pleasure is square it's the shapes in between, non-existantly spinning me into despair. We have seen over one hundred thousand movies, we've had *** in a jacuzzi. You were the fabulous muse so bemuse me again, it's enough of shaving one leg to feel closer to you. There are a million effing elements that won' t seem to align. I'm sick and you're outstanding. We're supposed to be- I can't shut my eyes without seeing you smile, the shape of your mouth and the color of your hair.

I'm twisted up. My elbows shun me and I collapse even when I try to gather myself for walking. It's been years since I've heard
you talking. There must be a scientific law, just a clause that affirms I wasn't supposed to have purposely been given this, "*******."

My chits expired and I'm well over on my phone plan. You're the one that got me addicted to cologne, am I going extinct because I can't seem to hold anything down? The therapy hasn't worked, your therapist is a schmoozer, he's on a tract of trying to use her. Corroborating these lines of language that's died, it's so slow he sees someone himself.

Recently I learned a cure using cigarettes, Led Zeppelin, and liquid morphine, it rearranges my endorphins. I've tried very hard to support it, I've even been a good sport when I realize it's still ******* silent and you haven't called or wrote, or sent or shown me anything. Your poison is heavy. Isn't it time for me to **** the lion and go back home. When you go I'll go, when the shapes of our shadows and the dusts of our ghosts decide to go. When your face is placed on my nape and the house lights low, and I can breathe, and know that my world's other half brings all time to a slow crawl. There is some magic that can keep abright a dying star.

Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,

Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,

Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—

A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.

A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,

Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,

Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—

A poem should be not true:
Equal too.

For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief

For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream

A poem should not be
But mean.

I listened to the iron rooster
spinning in the wind wondering
who would climb the roof
and take him in, or would he roost
with strangers in the house

It was so cold
the chicken water froze over

The women made coffee
and the men went out to the shed
to look over the tools

No one would sit in her black chair
because it was a bear
that might wake up anytime

She died in the middle of the night

The doctor said her heart blew out
like a jar of preserves

Before dawn I laid my head
on the hard couch by the cast iron
stove and heard her coming down
the stairs with her cane and her teeth
in a glass on the way to the outhouse
saying *Who took my flashlight?

Today, a poem should be palatable, cute
As a Kiwi fruit,

Dumb
As a horse battalion's scudding run,

Strident as out of tune horns
Of basement bands where the gloss has grown—

A poem should be bloodless
As the slight of words.

A poem should be film of ocean brine
As the reel unwinds,

Cleaving as the gear greases
Spoke by spoke the light smearing breeze,

Blowing, to the temple outhouse
Exalting all the ****** functions—

A poem should be not true:
Equal too.

For all the history of vanity
An empty room and a bass relief

For lust
The keening masses and no light above the stream

A poem should not be
But mean.