The trucker was still staring at me,
his sweaty hands insulated a glass of scotch.
I could smell his odor of liquor, piss and diesel,
all mixed with loneliness and a dire need for a companion.
My judgment was interrupted by the waitress,
a sweet smell of cheap jasmine perfume pierced my throat.
“Thought you’d like some orange juice while you’re waitin,
its on me sweetie, you look far from near here.”
“Thanks. Naw, I’m from up north, Canada.”
My gulp of juice echoed throughout the bar.
“Canada?!? Lord, must be damn near cold up there.
I bet this heat is sure a kick in your ass?”
“Oh the heat is more of a knock you in your face,
fall to the jagged ground, kick you in your stomach
then steal your wallet.”
She looked at me like I was nuts.
“Well, I tell you what, I had a cousin who went up there once,
came back hallerin’ and preachin’ about the cold,
sayin’ he almost damn neared froze to death after one winter!”
“Yah, Canada’s like that, we live in igloo’s you know?”
She stopped buffing a drinking glass,
staring at me in confusion.
I felt bad for playing around.
“No!?? Do ya? Child you have done gone in the right direction!
I would peel over if I had to live in an ice cave! Jesus!”
“Yah, it ain’t that bad once you get use to it,
we just use deer hide and seal skin to keep warm.”
Now I was being cruel, Americans are so easy though.
“Deer? Seal hide? Well, I would have never guessed,
you don’t look like the huntin’ type?”
I shrugged.
My shoulder fell through the neck of my shirt.
Clutching my skinny arm I was reminded how starving I was.
I could tell she sensed this realization.
“I think your pancakes are ready!
I’ll grab ya some more juice and extra butter too!”
She waddled back to the kitchen,
hips twistin’, barely contained in her floral skirt.
I guzzled more of the juice and waited for her return.
My chest burned as the orange pulp stuck in my esophagus,
firing a pain only a smoker can understand.
I pounded my chest to get it down,
hacking out the pieces of delta momma love.
I then smelt the warmth of a buttermilk batter,
felt the heat of a freshly flipped flap jack,
saw the beauty within ol’ Jerry’s art.
“Here you are child! Stack of six, extra large! Eat up!
Don’t go chockin’ yourself now, I don’t got no room left in the basement.
Down there just won’t fit another body!”
I don’t think she was joking.
The pancakes were perfectly bronzed discs.
Each one placed delicately atop the other,
a stack of pride and pretentious glory!
Pancake sweat corrugated beneath the edges,
I quickly lathered each floor of precious cake with softened butter,
using a knife engraved with teeth marks
of a fuming beast.
Drenching the stack with oozing syrup
I watched the last drop plunge from a glass dispenser,
crusted with crystallized beads,
adding to the memories of the ones who ate here.
The first bite was indescribably orgasmic,
a burst of sugar and maple
flooded within a heavy dough
melted, as if becoming one with my mouth.
I don’t remember much after that,
my hunger overwhelmed my ability to experience the taste.
Too bad,
I had a feeling it was like the best sex of my life,
I was just too drunk to remember
and forgot to turn the video camera on.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Chapter 2: Lonesome Red Pancakes in Noseneck Hill
The entrance door screeched with stories of drunks and truckers
coming here to spill onto anyone who would listen.
The light from outside illuminates the place,
my entrance seemed to disrupt its sinister thoughts.
Music of an old jukebox was softly humming,
sounded like Waylon Jennings, before he got clean.
Cigarette smoke gathered at the ceiling,
a few shadows sat at a corner table mumbling about corn
or something that was horribly uninteresting.
Mismatched chairs and 3 legged tables
were disheveled throughout the place.
Dust gathered in crevices beneath old coco-cola signs,
pinwheels hung on the wall, shovels leaned up against doors,
and pictures frames of random folk
with disturbing smiles of hidden history
watched you walk in.
A old trucker was staring at me,
looked like he hadn’t seen a women in years,
if he got a hold of me
he would have tear me in two.
I tested his glare with my own and knew he would cower.
Taking a seat at the bar I realized this was no diner,
perhaps a marketing ploy to widen their customer base.
This place was gloomy, tired and incredibly sad.
A dark skinned women placed down a coaster.
“What’ll ya have sweetie?”
Her black hair pinned into a crows nest atop her head.
Pieces hung across her face like black thread,
a man’s oxford shirt hugged her hips
like morning bakery buns wrapped in cloth.
She had these beautiful turquoise earrings incased in silver
and a matching necklace.
A stained apron cinched around her waist
spoke of the years she’d spent here.
Her dark chestnut eyes crept into my soul
stealing my cold fate and breathing for my heart.
“What do you have for food?” I asked.
“Well, Jerry back there makes some mean pancakes.
You like pancakes don’t ya?”
I looked up from fiddling with the coaster,
“I love pancakes, I’ll get six.”
“Six?! Jesus Miriam Joseph Child!
Well, you could use some meat on your bones!”
I glanced down at my matchstick legs,
They’ve grown smaller since I last looked.
“I guess I could, couldn’t I? Tell him to make ‘em big too!”
She let out a big hum drum laugh,
an exhale of surprise
followed by an inhale of amusing pity.
She smiled sweetly and walked to the kitchen.
coming here to spill onto anyone who would listen.
The light from outside illuminates the place,
my entrance seemed to disrupt its sinister thoughts.
Music of an old jukebox was softly humming,
sounded like Waylon Jennings, before he got clean.
Cigarette smoke gathered at the ceiling,
a few shadows sat at a corner table mumbling about corn
or something that was horribly uninteresting.
Mismatched chairs and 3 legged tables
were disheveled throughout the place.
Dust gathered in crevices beneath old coco-cola signs,
pinwheels hung on the wall, shovels leaned up against doors,
and pictures frames of random folk
with disturbing smiles of hidden history
watched you walk in.
A old trucker was staring at me,
looked like he hadn’t seen a women in years,
if he got a hold of me
he would have tear me in two.
I tested his glare with my own and knew he would cower.
Taking a seat at the bar I realized this was no diner,
perhaps a marketing ploy to widen their customer base.
This place was gloomy, tired and incredibly sad.
A dark skinned women placed down a coaster.
“What’ll ya have sweetie?”
Her black hair pinned into a crows nest atop her head.
Pieces hung across her face like black thread,
a man’s oxford shirt hugged her hips
like morning bakery buns wrapped in cloth.
She had these beautiful turquoise earrings incased in silver
and a matching necklace.
A stained apron cinched around her waist
spoke of the years she’d spent here.
Her dark chestnut eyes crept into my soul
stealing my cold fate and breathing for my heart.
“What do you have for food?” I asked.
“Well, Jerry back there makes some mean pancakes.
You like pancakes don’t ya?”
I looked up from fiddling with the coaster,
“I love pancakes, I’ll get six.”
“Six?! Jesus Miriam Joseph Child!
Well, you could use some meat on your bones!”
I glanced down at my matchstick legs,
They’ve grown smaller since I last looked.
“I guess I could, couldn’t I? Tell him to make ‘em big too!”
She let out a big hum drum laugh,
an exhale of surprise
followed by an inhale of amusing pity.
She smiled sweetly and walked to the kitchen.
"Junket" Chapter 1: Hoardin' Coach Roads
Ginger skies and deserted roads were becoming too comforting.
My eyes, accustomed to these free paths and dessert fields,
saw nothing left within cities of the savage and barbaric.
It was my way now; my ol’ 54 and I,
never putting out or giving in to nothin’
and still remaining a woman.
The drifting Texas sand scratched my skin, burnt
from the death and rebirth of a crimson sun.
My complexion was no longer untouched porcelain,
but only pealing nail beds, cracked hands and traveled feet,
now a dry leather, weathered
by way of the wind.
I’d been on the road for 23 days now.
What started as a brief escape from a dull livin’
was becoming an everlasting journey to the dark side.
I was now within a small suitcase, a guitar,
fueled by cigarettes and the occasional drink
and not ever goin’ back.
It’s been almost 52 hours since I last had a hot meal.
I had to pull over, the moans of my stomach
were warning me I was on my last leg.
This is going to be a problem.
I hadn’t seen a gas station or men in Sombrero’s
selling Pico de Gallo invested with Loew
for almost 6 hours.
I wasn’t worried.
A drifter like me cares not for hunger.
Then I noticed I was low on cigarettes, time to curb it.
After a couple detours down some dirt roads,
over softened hills who grew strands of sanded hair
when the wind would gust through the valley
with a piercing sound of childhood screams,
I found a place.
A small roadside diner with worn pink painted brick,
coffee stained colored draperies,
a fluorescent flicker that read “Mexican American food.”
No name, just a red wooden sign that said “Diner.”
I put ‘er in park, looked at the nothing surrounding me
and started walkin’ towards the place.
The growling of my hunger
was even interrupted by a traveling tumble weed,
I laughed at the cliché,
Dean would have loved that.
My eyes, accustomed to these free paths and dessert fields,
saw nothing left within cities of the savage and barbaric.
It was my way now; my ol’ 54 and I,
never putting out or giving in to nothin’
and still remaining a woman.
The drifting Texas sand scratched my skin, burnt
from the death and rebirth of a crimson sun.
My complexion was no longer untouched porcelain,
but only pealing nail beds, cracked hands and traveled feet,
now a dry leather, weathered
by way of the wind.
I’d been on the road for 23 days now.
What started as a brief escape from a dull livin’
was becoming an everlasting journey to the dark side.
I was now within a small suitcase, a guitar,
fueled by cigarettes and the occasional drink
and not ever goin’ back.
It’s been almost 52 hours since I last had a hot meal.
I had to pull over, the moans of my stomach
were warning me I was on my last leg.
This is going to be a problem.
I hadn’t seen a gas station or men in Sombrero’s
selling Pico de Gallo invested with Loew
for almost 6 hours.
I wasn’t worried.
A drifter like me cares not for hunger.
Then I noticed I was low on cigarettes, time to curb it.
After a couple detours down some dirt roads,
over softened hills who grew strands of sanded hair
when the wind would gust through the valley
with a piercing sound of childhood screams,
I found a place.
A small roadside diner with worn pink painted brick,
coffee stained colored draperies,
a fluorescent flicker that read “Mexican American food.”
No name, just a red wooden sign that said “Diner.”
I put ‘er in park, looked at the nothing surrounding me
and started walkin’ towards the place.
The growling of my hunger
was even interrupted by a traveling tumble weed,
I laughed at the cliché,
Dean would have loved that.
That Night of Time, Beneath Breath of Wind
My vision rapt by a calm presence;
a truth so untouched and clear
has unearthed a weakened essence
far removed from this body of fear.
Night has casts her blackened shawl;
all begins to take shape of a form
so unfamiliar and dull.
Sorrow wept through vicious storm;
clouds cursed with a thunder
that shakes a sleeper’s eye.
The screams of weathers wrath
eats my will in dire time.
Such hardened rain pounds my door.
Strikes of lightening damn the skies,
softening a grip I held before,
all lost in angry battle outside.
Have I found a lucid kind
during a raging wretched gust?
A refuge born by heavens rage;
a squall in which appeals my trust.
My truth; naked in sweat of fear
in a defiant second birth.
An absence of love held so dear
was revealed by an angered earth.
It was that night of tranquil time
beneath a haven; breath of wind.
An undoing of my mind
had spoke only by way of storm.
a truth so untouched and clear
has unearthed a weakened essence
far removed from this body of fear.
Night has casts her blackened shawl;
all begins to take shape of a form
so unfamiliar and dull.
Sorrow wept through vicious storm;
clouds cursed with a thunder
that shakes a sleeper’s eye.
The screams of weathers wrath
eats my will in dire time.
Such hardened rain pounds my door.
Strikes of lightening damn the skies,
softening a grip I held before,
all lost in angry battle outside.
Have I found a lucid kind
during a raging wretched gust?
A refuge born by heavens rage;
a squall in which appeals my trust.
My truth; naked in sweat of fear
in a defiant second birth.
An absence of love held so dear
was revealed by an angered earth.
It was that night of tranquil time
beneath a haven; breath of wind.
An undoing of my mind
had spoke only by way of storm.
Entrance into the Field
Here I am amidst a wave of dying wheat
swaying in a fragrance of burnt oak.
My feet heavy within a listless gut;
an inconclusive body
in a realm of bitter soil.
Malicious clouds observe a ruin,
unnourished and dim-
a pith of a steeped soul.
A boundless dream once
hidden within your broad mouth.
Earth of sweet marrow,
embrace me to a life.
To your death,
To your trodden pasture,
where a neutral path blazes,
and is still, and breathes.
Let us be destroyed by fire.
Let us be silent.
swaying in a fragrance of burnt oak.
My feet heavy within a listless gut;
an inconclusive body
in a realm of bitter soil.
Malicious clouds observe a ruin,
unnourished and dim-
a pith of a steeped soul.
A boundless dream once
hidden within your broad mouth.
Earth of sweet marrow,
embrace me to a life.
To your death,
To your trodden pasture,
where a neutral path blazes,
and is still, and breathes.
Let us be destroyed by fire.
Let us be silent.
An Unforgiving Fruit
A tree in Johannesburg
bares a telling fruit.
Its sullen leaves, scarce and grey,
unable to attain an abundant bloom,
congregate at its swollen roots.
A single, withered stone fruit swings in a southern breeze,
no body for a significant growth;
its wrinkled flesh and weak grasp
on the very brand it trusted to assist in its survival,
speaks of a feeble maintenance.
Fallen fruit adorn the earth below the tree;
the seeds are scattered, offering no sign of renewal.
It is all dead.
Here lies no trace of rebirth.
Here lies an unforgiving fruit.
bares a telling fruit.
Its sullen leaves, scarce and grey,
unable to attain an abundant bloom,
congregate at its swollen roots.
A single, withered stone fruit swings in a southern breeze,
no body for a significant growth;
its wrinkled flesh and weak grasp
on the very brand it trusted to assist in its survival,
speaks of a feeble maintenance.
Fallen fruit adorn the earth below the tree;
the seeds are scattered, offering no sign of renewal.
It is all dead.
Here lies no trace of rebirth.
Here lies an unforgiving fruit.
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