“And lo, then the apocalypse did arrive and we did sayest to our kinfolk: “Be this it? This be-ist not so bad!” And lo, then we did enjoy the hell out of the plague of tiny frogs and the plague of bluegrass locusts and the plague where the river did run red with Kool-Aid…”
Someone told me last week that everything I write is set in a Slacker Apocalypse. Sounds about right.
“Take an old apple pie (one from the day-old rack at the supermarket) and punch holes all over the top crust after it’s baked. Then pour on the rum or brandy, making sure it goets in all the holes. Now that’s good enough, but to make it really something, sprinkle on a little sugar (now don’t load it down) and set fire to it. That’s what you call making it prissy.”
From White Trash Cooking by Ernie Matthew Mickler.
Takes dogs and cows
and the old, when it can get them.
Sucks clouds like eggs, rubs the paint
off houses, scrapes them to wood
under an itchy chin.
Oh, Summer – Why?
Do you love the crickle of your dry skin so
you burn the grass down dead
and every wind hisses
over the cracked dirt?
(Riding Amtrak through small town Texas in July. If you don’t feel this way in middle of a Texas summer, then please pass me whatever it is you’re drinking.
Things passed on the train: 2 open graves. 2 black dogs hiding from the sun, 1 horse, 1 donkey, 1 mule, 5 closed liquor stores, a sign: “Welcome to Tayler Texas, Home of the Ducks!”)