Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Mackinaw Spoon
Anti-Copyright
2013
NERE
Press,
Stl
MO
xnetkids@yahoo.com
mackinaw.spoon@gmail.com
Thank
you,
Trophies.
Thanks
Dad.
Knife
at
a
Funeral
To
Hell
w/Honesty
WB
Stafford
Deities
Knife at a Funeral
My grandad changed his will the day after my father passed. No arrangements to reach Nashville, no interest in the funeralhe an attorney takes his money exacts his wishes If mom will not move to Texas, move in with him, shes out: No role in the execution of his will, and no money tied up for some years. When dad died, mom was obviously in shock; my sister and I waded through bills, explained subtle nuances of hook and genuine claim. We taught her how to pay bills, organize paperwork, write checks, etc WB chose the crazy one to execute his last wishes. Resonates with me. Crazy. He always believed we never reached the moon. He blasted a hole in a bedroom wall with a shotgun one night a long time ago aiming at Satan. Mom has a business to run, a daycare, working parents who depend on her. She has a large house full of stuff a home, a mortgage, a stake in a faltering economy Shes disgusted by the old mans actions. She doesnt believe him, but when she tells me tears tell different My mother has a sister who believes in her fathers wisdom. A sister whose materialism snaps the eye of a needle obesely like a girdle gives and the eye tears loose, vacant as absurd desire pursuing this shit that shapes us
She
doesnt
see
this
because
shes
afraid
of
the
dark;
sight
has
so
blighted
her
vision
that
she
believes
what
she
does
see
is
in
fact
reality.
A
lens
has
fused
with
her
eye
but
in
this
case
many
would
define
said
lens
as
shield
No
one
else
is
capable
of
seeing
through
it
A
sister
chooses
to
mark
the
event
of
her
fathers
death
as
the
originary
of
the
split
between
three
sisters.
Everyone
else
in
the
world
is
wrong
but
her.
x
My mothers endured hypoglycemic shock many times after speaking with Yolanda. She has bouts of insomnia. Her stomachs torn up and she echoes a malaise not unfamiliar when she speaks of dread wrapped round her each morning rising from a bed she can only desire Any action is too much except rolling over, breathing, pulling an arm under the pillow But she never stays in bed. My mother is a machine. Her sister is a drone. The sum of her idealism is easily accessible in the wide-reaching thighs of late capitalist society. Its garnished with a healthy dose of theology, the bible-thumpin sort Shes got sources, the alleged, when it comes to conclusions. Mom is a machine who repairs herself. Shes no need of stamps, nods; she has a brain that thinks for itselfisnt idle, no, all plugged in And this makes her weird. Weird isnt verbally declaring how vile her father for pulling his pecker out in the driveway to urinate upon exiting the vehicle, before entering the house disgusting because he doesnt bathe and she can smell him. My mom asks Elvira to stay the night, Spend the night at the house Her sister says No WB had been hospitalized. He wasnt exemplary yet wasnt done. Sent home. Hed been anesthetized and the effects were still with him (My God LaDell, said Elvira, the man wet all over his pants legs wobbling Stay, pleaded mom. Her sis split. WB fell in the kitchen. No one was there to watch him struggle but if you imagine the usual placement of kitchen chairs turned out turned over, as one may have grabbed em in an effort to claw forward if you can see the rug gnarled bunches where it is said his fists clenched, youd agree he fell in the kitchen, turning over chairs, and crawled in search of his oxygen tank, never quite reaching it. Elvira found him the following day
I
loved
WB,
and
I
still
do,
but
when
the
will
was
read
and
my
moms
fears
materialized,
I
wanted
to
stick
the
fucker.
I
hope
he
saw
Jesus
when
he
left
this
fucking
shit
realm
I
dont
care
for
Yolanda
because
her
loony
tunes
have
completely
alienated
me;
and
her
disrespect
for
my
mother
has
rendered
upon
her
the
character
of
antagonism
I
care
for
Elvira
but
I
cannot
forgive
her
disrespect
for
her
father
I
love
WB,
the
bastard.
Some
villains
hooks
score
secrets.
They
abhor
lava,
fire
and
central
score
figure
here
x
Mom aligns with one sister against the other. I applaud adding, Yes, the old man would have died soon I say that isnt the point, he died on someones watch. Sad its less evil Mom gets it, the shit Im layin down.
To Hell w/Honesty
My
grandad
suggests
I
find
a
Mexican
or
Indian
woman
they
wont
cheat
on
you,
theyll
be
good
to
youjust
dont
cheat
on
them!
theyll
kill
you!
In
his
day,
were
I
him,
were
this
to
have
happened
to
him,
she
would
be
dead,
both
of
them
and
Id
be
bragging
lifting
the
heel
of
my
boot
to
the
bar
showing
everyone
the
blood
Instead,
divorce
is
difficult.
Its
murder
without
corpses.
x
My grandads eighty-five. Hes done a lot of bad in his day. Used to be downright mean. Did a lot of drinking, whoring. Loved to fight. Used to run with Hoyle Nix. (Whacha up to Wwouldve been 1949. Story goes my grandad was sauced when he showed up, sat down, having pulled a milk crate replied, Workin on the railroad, sleepin on the ground, eatin saltine crackers, ten cents a pound.) Always honkey-tonking. He was a songwriter, worked his ranch, had a family. He abused them. One time he got crazy on liquor and tried to shoot his wife, who happened to have my mother in tow. From his pickup truck, off dirt road into trees til he can no longer manage driving and shooting so he open the door, jump out and fire into and when hes empty, realizes theyve disappeared walks back to the house. My mother and grandmother pass the dead truck the next morning. My grandad asleep at the kitchen table when they reach the house. Another time, he rode a horse over my mother. Another, he forced her to leap from the roof of their home into his arms.
Over
Thanksgiving,
we
bury
his
wife,
Lazell.
Hes
noticeably
absent.
I
struggle
to
imagine
no,
I
cope.
Cant
imagine.
I
havent
life
left
to
be
married
as
long
as
he
My
grandmother
succumbed
to
dementia
years
ago.
The
extent
to
which
her
subsequent
admission
to
the
care
of
the
state
of
Texas
was
incremental
in
her
ultimate
demise
is
not
known;
atrocious,
her
years
there,
and
inhumane.
The
crawl
up
the
crags
to
law
summons
defeat
in
the
imagination.
We
spread
prayers
and
flowers.
I
drive
grandad
to
the
liquor
store
just
past
a
sign
Now
Leaving
Cass
County
We
grab
our
bottles.
He
goes
to
the
head
of
the
line,
roosting
beside
the
cashier.
Some
customers
in
line
look
at
us.
Some
dont.
The
cashier
recognizes
him,
evidently
now,
proceeding
with
our
purchases,
breaking
the
rhythm
of
the
line.
No
one
scowls.
Im
briefly
amazed.
Outside
the
door,
he
hands
me
his
bag,
Goin
round
back
to
piss.
I
slip
inside
my
car,
roll
to
the
edge
of
the
building.
He
rounds
the
corner
after
a
moment,
pulling
at
his
zipper
No
problem
getting
into
my
Jetta.
He
uses
a
cane
now
but
crows
something
of
climbing
over
barbwire
and
running
down
poachers
in
Little
Tango,
indicating
a
level
of
spit
remaining
in
his
resources
when
I
apologize
for
his
having
to
fall
into
the
seat.
We
roll
back
to
the
house.
Getting
out
of
my
car,
he
walks
to
the
back
and
again
urinates,
this
time
pulling
his
pecker
out
mid-sentence
with
my
following
the
conversation
til
Im
fore
the
awful
member
spills
gold
x
Were
worlds
apart.
We
pull
on
our
bottles.
Its
finally
dark.
One
note
here:
This
is
one
of
my
chosen
landscapes
of
death.
I
shall
attribute
this
to
a
conversation
I
once
had
with
the
ex
after
reading
a
bit
of
Virilio.
If
I
could
choose,
if
I
can
be
in
control
of
place
when
I
die,
it
will
have
been
my
grandfathers
ranch
in
Texas.
(Or
a
beach,
while
Im
being
honest.
But
I
didnt
have
a
choice.
I
died
in
a
living
room
)
Ive
been
on
the
ranch
in
dreams
such
another
history
appears,
buds,
blurs
this
one;
Ive
always
been
here,
summers,
holidays
The
vast
pasture
is
heaven.
Leaps
into
my
heart.
Fulfills
every
attempt
We
are
still
worlds
apart.
His
home,
my
sepulcher.
We
get
drunk.
We
try
and
forget
women,
and
this
forgetting
renders
my
grandfather
incapable
of
speech.
x
Grandad
convinced
his
wife
not
only
would
he
kill
her
if
she
left
him,
but
first
hed
kill
their
children,
force
her
watch
before
she
was
done.
If
you
love
your
kids,
he
was
reported
as
having
said
It
is
mad
logic.
What
were
my
grandmothers
options?
Who
can
really
say
without
the
benefit
of
her
experienceI
think
we
could
all
say
were
she
to
have
left
him,
and
somehow
survived;
but
she
didnt.
The
desire
to
be
free
was
beyond
my
grandmother,
not
an
option
at
all,
nowhere
on
the
radar.
The
desire
to
be
free
was
unreal.
In
reality,
she
survived
by
giving
everything
in
the
world
away.
Around
the
time
of
my
birth,
she
took
great
pride
in
having
her
name
appear
on
the
title
of
the
ranch
I
would
come
to
know
and
adore;
finally,
it
seemed,
something
was
hers.
(Of
course,
his
name
was
on
it
too,
but
this
was
different.
Her
name
had
never
gone
anywhere.)
Never
knew
the
woman
my
mother
describes.
She
did
things
Id
heard
a
lot
about.
She
killed
chickens,
snakes.
She
kept
a
lush
garden.
She
tracked
animals
took
me
into
woods
and
taught
me
how
to
breathe
and
listen.
She
sat
with
me
at
night,
times
the
Milky
Way
was
visible
She
gave
me
arrowheads.
He
spat
behind
my
ear,
having
pulled
me
close,
having
brandished
his
pocketknife,
Im
gonna
cut
your
ear
off
kid
and
pressing
the
blade
Outside
in
the
lawn
he
would
often
tell
me
to
dance,
throwing
his
knife
into
the
ground
close
to
my
feet.
He
made
me
dance.
He
made
me
run.
When
my
grandmother
what?
went
crazy?
lost
it?
When
my
grandmother
could
no
longer
take
care
of
herself,
after
she
had
been
diagnosed
with
dementia,
my
grandfather
took
care
of
her.
Until
he
went
ill,
nearly
died.
Then
she
was
placed
in
the
care
of
the
state
of
Texas
Grandad
believes
his
having
to
put
her
in
a
home
killed
her.
It
didnt
happen
overnight,
in
fact,
she
languished,
impacted,
starving
in
an
unwashed
bed
for
entirely
too
long.
I
imagine
her
final
months
charted
like
the
slow
spread
of
bacteria.
I
understand
what
he
means,
the
fact
of
her
situation
a
result
of
choices
x
I
have
the
thought
he
must
somehow
be
experiencing
the
double
of
his
destroyed
wife,
who
in
marriage
was
the
destroyed
young
woman,
of
whom
it
could
be
said,
was
captive.
But
they
loved
each
other.
Somehow,
impossibly
These
are
years
I
know.
There
are
years
wherein
only
the
loud,
menacing
meanness
of
the
old
man
lingered.
Ive
never
witnessed
the
cruelty
Ive
heard
tell,
ripe
in
the
stories
with
which
I
grewI
am
listening
to
grandad
himselfHe
laughs,
sweats
wipes
his
bald,
craggy
head.
He
rejects
nothing.
He
knows
Boy,
I
woulda
hated
to
run
into
me
back
then
There
are
doubles
of
them
both.
These
doubles
are
assigned
in
my
memory
to
stages
in
my
life,
not
necessarily
theirs
but
One
set,
Im
younger,
the
stories
come
to
me.
The
other
Im
living
with
and
later
married
to
the
woman
I
love,
and
even
later,
Im
bringing
the
great-granddaughter
Charlie
doesnt
remember
my
grandmother,
but
they
met.
Charlie
was
young,
was
fascinated
by
my
grandmothers
near
comatose
state.
She
was
secretly
proud
of
herself
at
mealtime
because
she
was
feeding
herself.
My
grandads
emerged
in
another
state,
no
longer
simply
doubled
but
a
different
composite,
another
cast
of
himself
imposed
in
twilight,
one
experience,
it
seems,
ahead
of
him
I
know
this
without
knowing
it.
Ive
witnessed
death.
Not
his.
Theres
a
nature
to
us
we
cant
know.
And
it
is
like
a
law.
To
hell
with
knowledge,
to
Hell
with
honesty.
To
hell
with
happiness.
Avinger,
TX
November
2007
WB Stafford
the railroad wasnt his ordinary gig but crops hadnt turned like hed been accustomed and little mouths to feed meant hed need the extra money, especially to keep the alcohol flowing, perhaps his primary concern. WB wasnt the shining example of a family man. He did bring the money round (eventually), but he often split for weeks at a time, leaving the family and farm in pinches. One night, after workin the railroad, after pickin up a bottle of whisky and a box of crackers, he makes Hoyle Nixs place where Hoyle and the West Texas Cowboys often practiced, played and, generally, got drunk. The modest home in Big Springs, TX was often cluttered with poor, working class songwriters and musicians, friends and family, drifty girlfriends Sometimes it was just the band or maybe Hoyle and a couple of others WB lets himself in and thats the case tonight. The band. WB loads off, climbin up a long bitch of a day turnin over a wooden crate and sittin down in the sparsely furnished room. Hes got his whisky and his crackers. Hoyle cracks wise and WB plays along. He passes his bottle round the room. Hoyle says he and boys are close to jewel, explains the song theyre workin on is nearly done. So, hit me Winford, says Hoyle and WB says, Workin on the railroad Sleepin on the ground Eatin Saltine crackers Ten cents a pound Turns out, WB didnt make it home that night. Not the few before or following. Benders. That night he slept on Hoyles floor. The next morning, he drank Hoyles coffee, ate the eggs & biscuits and went back to the railroad to suffer long toward another days pay. Big Balls in Cowtown was a hit. It was 1949, and in a few years Hoyle would open The Stampede on Snyder highway outside Big Springs where WB bounced for many years. Sides good pay & free booze, the gig afforded him song & dance, loose women, and the occasional brawl. What more could he ask forHe was handsome & rugged, could sing and woo He was a surprisingly strong man whose strength compounded when he drank. His penchant for violence (and promiscuity) was a matter of record downtown.
Could
have
been
the
money,
could
have
been
the
company,
the
talent,
he
said;
or
the
opportunity
to
prowl;
but
WB
would
never
fail
to
recollect
the
good
ol
days
without
simultaneously
testifying
that
these
were
the
best
years
of
his
life.
WB
passed
away
in
June
of
this
year.
He
was
88
years
old.
In
addition
to
having
lived
a
cowboys
life,
that
is,
having
fancied
himself
a
dying
breed,
having
positioned
his
character
at
the
end
of
a
brief,
explosive
period
in
American
history,
he
also
fancied
himself
a
songwriter.
The
few,
uncredited
lines
above
are
his
only
published.
Gathered
here
are
a
sample
of
his
surviving
notes
&
songs.
Stl,
MO
August
2010
Little Flower Shes waiting for me in a rose covered veil, and her eyes are like diamonds after a shower. The fond dimple doe comes to lie at the feet of my fare flower so modest and sweet. The ringed neck dove comes to sit on the shoulder of the one I love. Theres no artist can paint, theres no poet can write how she warms the cold like a sunbeam so bright. She will laugh, she will sing, she will sway, and her laughter will echo like ripples at play, til my troubles like my heart she has stolen away. I will pick tender blossoms to twine in her hair, blushing roses so red with the lilies so fare an emerald dew, buttercup yellow and forget me not blue. Ill love and protect her and never will part from my fare flower who twines my heart.
Wings White as Snow I will serve my lord on earth, til its time for me to go. Then I want to wear my wings in glory, those wings as white as snow. I want to pass through pearly gates and walk streets of gold, wear my wings in glory, wings white as snow. I want to meet my loved ones for I know thats where theyll go, and well spread our wings in glory, those wings white as snow. I want to be with Jesus, the one who saved my soul. Wear my wings in glory, wings white as snow. I will serve my lord on earth til its time for me to go. Then, Ill soar to glory on wings white as snow.
The Beautiful Place When our work on Earth is done And this bodys turned to clay Will you be ready for a journey To that beautiful place far away When He comes on a cloud of glory Every eye shall behold Him. And every knee shall bend before him. O itll be a little late on that day To get your ticket to that beautiful place far away You better get on your knees and pray Ask forgiveness every day If you want to live forever In that beautiful place far away When our work on Earth is done And this bodys turned to clay Will you be ready for a journey To that beautiful place far away Where evening sun will never set But shine brighter than day Where we will meet our loved ones In that beautiful place far away When our work When our work
Eyes on the Cross Follow the world on the path of destruction And your soul is sure to be lost You got to walk the path straight and narrow And keep your eyes up on the cross Walk the straight and narrow Sing praises to the Lord Keep your eyes on the cross And in Heaven we will reap our rewards We were born into this world of sin and sorrow Just like a flower, here today and gone tomorrow And our soul can sure be lost You got to walk straight and narrow And keep your eyes up on the cross Walk the straight and narrow Sing praises to the Lord Keep your eyes on the cross And in Heaven we will reap our rewards Jesus died for those who believe And keep faith from ever being lost So walk the straight and narrow And keep your eyes up on the cross Walk the straight and narrow Sing praises to the Lord Keep your eyes on the cross And in Heaven we will reap our rewards
Another You You say men run around and Id run around too Id be the first to admit If theres another one of you Butt of My Gun They believe every lie. And I laugh when they cry. I make a mark for every broken heart. I number them one by one. And like men when they fall, I count them by the notches on the butt of my gun. I love them and feast and love them for fun and like men when they fall I count them by the notches on the butt of my gun.
Untitled Im gonna be a lover in someones arms tonight. Thought I married a man but turned out hes a mouse, so tonight I am leaving this ol house When hes asleep, Ill slip out still and mute the stars are shining and the moon is bright Im gonna be a lover in someones arms tonight. You said you didnt love me no more, we were through You thought I would sit alone crying, blue. But the stars are shining, its Saturday night and Im gonna be a lover in someones arms tonight. Well drink beer and dance til finally well bow to the east, I reckon theres someone wholl treat me right. Im going to be a lover in someones arms tonight. Now when you miss me and want me back, youll be alone in your dirty little shack And youll muse you can treat me right No, Im the lover in someones arms tonight.
Deities
in a bedroom wall taking aim at SatanEvils all round us, kid, he said once Maybe the house was haunted, I joked. Only those with eyes to see are haunted, he squinted good. It was a blessing to be haunted but a burden and responsibility. Id grown up hearing another story at bedtime, the same he once confessed at a kitchen table (He may have been drunk) Jesus personally intervened to save his lifetwice the story goes; and the way I remember it, WB wasnt living up to his end of the bargain. I heard that William Boyd had, in the act of portraying Hopalong Cassidy in the mid- nineteen-thirties, (or perhaps, as it occurs to me so many years later, his stunt double) leapt from a horse in order to gain a leg on a bad guy who, naturally, had tied a woman (in this story, the girl is a friend of WB, as is the other kid playing Mr. Mean) I saw that shit at the cinema, he cackled, choking a bit, figured we should re-enact, you know I remember how he gestured, how he cocked his head and looked at me with one eyeI rode my horse past Mean, kicking and then swinging but landed a good blow with him droppin back where I approached the fence surrounding the corralWB used her name but I dont recollect it, I was young this a decade before I carried a notebook anywhere He leapt from his horse, made the fence (composed of generous, sturdy round wooden posts, stripped of bark and bleached in Texas sun before he made the female he slipped something about his boots The boy split his belly open. He jumped from steed to fence rushed slipping into the charade which I reckon is childhood how to tell a boy who lassos who rustles who rides Charlie rode early. Took to horses. They loved her. 1937 is thrown out, though theres hardly any documentation I am in position to materializeYes, WB had slipped on the fence, impaled I remember the first time I inspected the scar
Some
creative
fucker
had
the
idea
to
remove
and
reposition
one
of
WBs
ribs
in
order
to
gird
his
organs
before
sewing
him
up.
The
boy
was
thick
with
infection.
His
fever
Doctors
told
his
mother
to
prepare
herself.
The
boy
wouldnt
see
morning.
She
stayed
with
him
that
night.
Tucking
him
in
was
natural.
Reading
was
ordinary.
She
held
his
hand
after
that,
praying
with
him
while
he
was
awake.
She
kept
his
forehead
covered
with
a
wet
washcloth.
When
he
finally
slept,
she
sat
at
the
foot
of
the
bed
in
a
rocker.
Shortly
before
dawn,
a
while
after
WB
had
last
opened
his
eyes
(she
watched
sheets
slowly
undulating
with
rhythm
winding
down
for
a
bit
only
trembling
she
was
assessing
her
emotions
seeing
the
boy
rest)He
snapped
awake,
looked
to
her
without
rising,
smiled
and
said,
I
see
Jesus
His
mother
shrieked
without
looking
around
for
Christ,
bolted
up
and
ran
from
the
room
in
search
of
a
doctorMy
boys
dead!
Hes
dead!
But
WBs
improving.
He
has
a
story.
Theres
a
point
in
any
room
where
walls
collide
to
corner
and
create
a
dot
in
the
ceiling,
a
corner
point.
Thats
where
Jesus
came
from.
The
tiny
spot
in
the
corner
of
the
walls
at
the
ceiling
lit
up
like
a
spark,
and
from
that
light
he
descended.
He
told
WB
he
would
save
him
but
he
needed
something
in
return.
The
boy
complied.
WB
was
asked
to
minister,
to
preach,
spread
the
good
word
in
deeds
and
diction.
Am
I
to
be
a
preacher,
the
boy
asked.
Jesus
smiled
said,
Dont
let
me
down.
His
mother,
doctors,
returned
to
the
room
to
find
WB
sitting
up
in
bed
quite
free
of
fever,
lively,
charged.
x
He
relayed
his
story
at
a
kitchen
table
in
Cass
County,
Texas.
The
same
I
grew
up
round.
The
Lord
came
to
see
me
again,
he
added,
squinting,
grabbing
the
questionable
coffee
mug
Working
a
tractor
or
some
other
farm-ish
device,
my
memorys
sketchy
at
best
but
hes
riding
something
working
his
land
when
hes
thrown
from
the
seatthe
entire
machine
locks
upbut
his
ass
doesnt
hit
earth,
hes
scooped
from
air
put
back
into
the
seat
in
time
to
see
Jesus
ascending
Remember
WB
hears
x
Unintentionally,
Id
threatened
WBas
evidenced
by
his
raising
his
fist
only
to
scurry,
spottin
round
with
his
eyesI
dont
know
what
happened.
My
efforts
to
recall
this
kernel
of
our
conversation
eludes
me
except
maybe
I
called
him
out
on
his
fear
of
death
I
aint
afraid
to
die.
Youre
scared
by
what
follows.
x
At one point in his life, WB had begun to spot Satan. He knew plenty Hell was coming, plenty hed done to attract it; a little undone. He told me about the bedroom wall. Told me about a backseat, a diner, others. He spoke of conferences, the details of which, sunk low beneath black ceilings and orange-yellow hearths, were not revealed at the kitchen table. WB whispered in a way, perfectly audible (with only a ceiling fan whirring over our heads), secrets more like essential evidence wedged into the rubber treads of kicks or dried and left to set, stain, unavoidable to the eyes (ears) as unlit sums of reluctant neurons poised to gash the heart. I heard his pain. He had humbled himself. Hed begun to pull his bandana from his overalls, wipe his eyes. I watched him choke up, coughing. I heard it; saw his chest undulating where his denim shirts unbuttoned. It looked like a heaving, silver nest riding a storm. I imagined darkly
silhouetted
birds,
too
dark
to
be
seen,
squeezing
through
his
pores.
Hes
finally
angry.
Wed
been
swapping
stories.
Having
some
laughs
sizing
each
other
up.
Turned
dead
serious.
x
I
know
WBs
wife
tried
to
shoot
him
three
times.
I
know
two
of
those
times
occurred
while
WB
had
the
habit
of
removing
the
rounds,
carrying
them
in
his
pocket.
I
know
my
mother
pulled
a
kitchen
knife
on
him
one
afternoon
in
1957
as
my
Dads
ride
pulled
up
a
county
road
toward
the
house.
Said
shed
kill
him
if
he
hurt
Charles.
You
really
think
you
can
take
me,
girl?
If
I
dont,
I
know
where
you
sleep.
Incidentally,
LaDell
and
Charles
had
been
married
for
a
month.
Theyd
simply
neglected
to
tell
anyone.
Dad
was
twenty-years-old.
Mom
was
sixteen.
A
flight
x
WB
went
to
strike
me.
But
didnt.
Years
later
mom
said,
Your
granddaddy
never
crossed
your
father
said
maybe
something
of
him
in
me
He
did
cross
my
dad,
but
only
after
the
man
was
dead.
I
salute
WB,
less
for
his
infamy,
more
for
his
wisdom
not
to
cross
a
breathing,
living
I
know
how
shit
smears
I
mean,
I
mean
what
mom
saidI
know
where
you
sleep.
Thats
what
I
said
to
WB
(Abhor
because
he
symbolizes
self-loathingmine
You
recognize
your
own.
WB
walked
away
that
day.
Left
the
kitchen.
I
dont
recall
what
I
did
next.
Outside,
the
pasture
was
heaven.)
Stl
MO
February
2013
x
Notes
&
Thanks
Knife
at
a
Funeral
opens
in
2010
but
appears
during
the
final
closing
throes
of
WBs
estate
(2013):
An
exceedingly
insufficient
account
of
the
period.
To
Hell
w/Honesty
first
appeared
in
Like
Im
Dead,
University
of
Missouri-St.
Louis
(2011).
WB
Stafford
first
appeared
in
Mens
Spoon
Magazine
Series
No
8,
Nere
Press
(2011).
Deities
accounts
for
an
afternoon
sitting
at
a
kitchen
table
with
my
grandfather
(a
conversation
tween
WB
and
myself
in
the
1980s)
after
having
challenged
his
authority
with
respect
to
just
how
much
catsup
was
enough
catsup
Hed
chastised
my
cousin
Kristi
for
her
consumption
but
not
me
when
I
renewed
my
engagement
with
the
bottle
Nothing
of
Deities
concerns
my
cousin,
catsup,
or
the
consumption
of
said
condiment.
x
Id like to thank the fucker, not for his sense of humor but for his crazy undead spirit. I so wish Id stuck a knife in him. Thanks to the muse, thanks to my teacher; tho Ive not laid eyes on em in months, they continue with nutrients.
Also by Mr. Spoon The Corpse of Mickey Mouse Homage Bckpg Girlie Night 3: The Script Cracked, 1953 Fabula Love in the Desert Dearly Departed