“I met Elvis in Louisville,
He signed my record
And kissed my cheek.”
She pointed to
The framed vinyl
Hanging beside the old cross.

The man in the rocking chair
Coughed and bit into an apple.
The woman cut into a
Seven tier molasses cake.

The radio played the National Anthem,
And the old man twirled his fingers in the air,
Whistling as the wind came in through
The window.

I’m chasing after a man who looks like my Great Grandpa.
He was a **** with a salty side eye,
Blue pearls embedded in his
Masochistic, alcoholic head.



Oil! Coal!
Black lung!

Liquid gold off the brushes,
Mines are still
There but the town is sold.

Things that
Have played out long before I
Was born.

Freshly rolled cigarettes
By hand.

His lighter was Navajo blue
And his mustache was alright
He came from San Francisco
But he was born in Wheeling

“Come on in, Jim,
The *** is boiling.”
She said from behind
The screen door.

“Hold on,
I’m talking politics with
The youngin’.”
And as he said that,
He rolled his lips in
An O.

“Put it in your mouth.”
He said as he gave me
A cigarette.
He lit it up,
And told me to inhale.

I blew the smoke out of
My nose,
I didn’t cough
But my eyes watered.


He got up and left me
On the porch with
A rolled stogie
And playing cards with
Pretty women on top.

The preacher lifts his old hand,
“This is where we are meant to be!” and,
The geese croon overhead as the day turns around,
“Here in the country! A mighty place to be for men so small!” said he,
The preacher, or the carney, the very angry canary,
“Here is where the wind blows and whistles across the fields,
Making waves and currents that show early eidolons in the rye,
And here is where the willow trees make curtains
For mid-afternoon ******* with a sultry sweat on the brow!”

The preacher clenches his pink fist,
“Here is where holy work is done,
And God is surely watching!
Here is where the lilacs create a musk that staggers,
And leaves the devil in bewilderment!
The son of God is in your boot,
He is in the locked gun cabinet,
Which you threw away the key!”

A woman drops to her knees,
And I ask why, in which she replies,
“Of course! Of course! I love him! I hate myself!”

Ay, slow and easy,
Her lips took the scenic route.

God!
The ugly and plain,
With pouches and paunches,
**** a dime a dozen,
Come here to settle in the humid heat,
Of a thousand fields spread eagle across,
The American hot bed.

Yes’a, I thinks,
The boonies,
Is where I should be,
When God comes around.

The preacher points his fat finger,
“Leave the city for the gluttons!
Leave it for the sinners! Leave it for the lazy!
Leave it for the intellects of bygones,
And aggravated souls who are not just,
Content with what God has given us!
Leave it for the hounds! We have only to hear,
The gospel of sweet nature like honey dew,
Or golden sopping molasses!”

The sun came in through the stained windows,
Shooting colors across the pale flat faces,
Of the god-fearing townspeople.