#waco
She bush-pushed past jammers,
sent bodies spinning like bad coins.
Farm boys waved their caps from the stands,
hoping she’d choose them next
for mercy or violence.
In your dreams, limp-dick!
She would shout,
Molly Magdalene taught her first:
if you’re going to be bad,
live your gimmick.
Juliet listened.
She was Demolisha:
roller derby queen,
brick hips and hair like barbed wire,
lips black as tar,
eyes smoked in coal,
women’s names inked on her ribs and shoulder,
like wounds she chose to keep.
I was just her groupie’s part-time boyfriend,
I was the tool she kept under the seat:
her tire iron,
used in a crisis.
I rode shotgun in her vintage truck
toward Waco,
singing Sinatra off-key
to keep her awake,
scribbling bios for the program:
Queen of Quake! Derby darling of devastation!
Empress of impact, Siren of slam!
"keep at it", she said.
We got to her father’s house
to take the bureau.
Crossed the ashtray living room,
threaded through a cave of trash bags,
yellowed sheets, broken lamps,
into a back bedroom, a hoarder’s shrine
stacked high to nothing.
The heirloom sat buried in the dark,
hard oak, grain heavy as muscle,
the one honest thing in a sour room,
something Juliet respected.
Her father stayed sunk in his chair,
TV glow staining his face,
cigarettes ground into carpet,
nicotine walls dripping beer sweat.
He barely nodded,
muttered bitterness,
as if we weren’t even there.
I knew then-
he had made her a villain
long before Molly Magdalene
polished her into one.
In Baton Rouge, gas station past midnight,
a boy appeared,
a Baby Ruthless shirt stretched across his chest,
skinny arms, John Deere cap.
His mother, pink barbie sweatshirt,
a purse full of pens and candy bars,
watched him hold out
a crumpled receipt to sign.
Juliet bent low,
almost tender,
Then shouted:
In your dreams, limp-dick!
And the boy laughed,
laughed like he’d won a prize,
while his mother burned with fury,
damning her to hell.
**** you, ***** Juliet countered.
Back in the truck
she sipped coffee bitter as ash,
rings rattling on the wheel.
_This,_ she said,
is what lasts.
Not when you’re bad.
When you’re the dirt worst.
Behind us, a past that forged her,
the oak piece rode, ratchet strapped,
to whatever she swung at next.
Aug 24, 2025
Aug 24, 2025 at 8:55 PM UTC
I went to the Zoo, for some brew
I wandered around, to animal sounds
while my liver and brain, they got stewed
Oh yes, it's wild, and it's true
I went to the Zoo, for some brew
as trips to the loo, maybe 1, 10, or 2
be glad it was me, and not you
I went to the Zoo, for some brew
I wandered around, to animal sounds
bladder gets full, pee's what ya do
but not, in where caged, are Emu's
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC