The Rest of Larry at
Rest
Looking off from this
mountain at the night
Thinking of every
woman I ever wifed
Fiery love we shared
and declared
Dancers cutting star
trails through the sky
We did what we did and
did not lie
Except to say we thought
that it would last
Considering all that
happened in the past
Looking off from this
mountain at the night
Sky of love and hurt
city beyond so bright.
Maybe
there is peace in letting things go
I
don’t know.
I knead
my memories into the shape of monsters.
That
converge on me after my 3 AM piss.
I
once woke to phone calls from my night auditor.
I am
cursed by my past, he once told me.
My
dad devoured my mother those last years.
One
endless chunk of night at a time.
I
tried to let religion go.
I
tried to let addiction go.
Sundown
like an ugly set shot.
Truth
in its burn barrel.
Only
night can teach you.
The
girth of a lie.
Spitballing in the Writing Center
He was an earnest late teenager
With a big friendly grin, dark-haired,
Chubby-faced, a fuzzy half beard,
Ball cap, jeans, a solid looking kid,
Come for help on a project
For this developmental English class.
It was a narrative with pictures,
The aim of which was to show
Appreciation to someone they admired.
I looked at the big old guy in the photos,
His grandpa, a grizzled mountain farmer
In Spruce Pine who loved his family
Though he’d lost his wife, he went on,
Had been a ballplayer and a coach
A long time ago, picture after picture
I saw a face I should recognize till
I finally asked him Who is your grandpa?
Gaylord Perry, he said, flat and
Matter of factly as a McDonald’s order.
300-win club Gaylord Perry.
Me and Spitter Gaylord Perry.
Named after a friend of his Daddy’s
Who died having his teeth pulled.
Cy Young in both leagues Gaylord Perry.
Campaigned for Jesse Helms Gaylord Perry.
Don’t you think we ought to mention
The baseball a little more, I asked,
He looked at me like I didn’t know nothing,
Shifting in his chair, he said,
That’s just my granddaddy.
East of Mercy
What you know is that sad house,
Walls painted yellow, floors brown,
Floors and windows the stifling
Oil base, still sticky a year
After the orgy of brush
Strokes and cheap beer, low Quaalude.
What you know is cold downstairs,
Dry and blistering upstairs.
Skynyrd Second Helping blared
The night you gave a marine
A beating in the living
Room after a wine party,
A dumb fight for wrong reasons.
What you know is the stove top,
Only one burner that worked,
Shower with slugs on the walls,
Monopoly Game that sat
The coffee table, missing
Boardwalk and Park Place, instead
Columbia, what you know.
Gudger’s Anecdotal Evidence 6
My coach believed it took two years
To learn to be a running back
So I didn’t start till junior year.
When I did, I ran with all that
Pent-up fury, with the madness
Of those held back behind
Their lessers. I ran with class
Hatred and hillbilly suspicion.
Look at my daddy. Look at
Grandpa. I ran with a genetic
Disposition for violence
And drunkenness and fear.
The Scrap Dog Hunts His New Dog
The sun fell backwards over the bluff.
Between the pitted granite wall
And the gray hog leg mountain.
He reached the cheap pint of vodka
From his Sherriff Brown jacket pocket.
Felt the swallow burn the hernia he earned
Swinging a church softball bat.
Molly growled at the edge of the pines.
Get back here, you stupid bitch.
He wheezed to his feet
Swinging an oak stick at the Labrador.
She barked the high pitched
Machine gun bark that made him crazy.
He took another unhealthy swallow
Of the Popov and leveled his pistol
Across his left arm. It shook
And when he fired he missed,
Sparking the rock ledge and Molly
Ran hard as she could,
Snuffing through the pine needles
Till she fell and he wondered
If he had somehow finally hit her.
