About that time . . .

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Well, if my calculator watch serves me correctly, I believe it’s Thursday. Time for a poem. Perhaps, first you have time for a quick story.

Working here at this gallery of art and other pop-culture curiosities, I rarely encounter a customer worth much at all. I mean, we have our regulars: the folks that collect, obsess, and immerse themselves in this peculiar brand of unneccesaria. The others are a dim-witted bunch of head-scratchers who “don’t get it.” It’s really no different than a bike shop. Really. So today’s hero came in the form of a robust man of average dress, thick-necked and rough-handed, mind you. He was from Monroe, Louisiana. It so happens that there’s a hurricane taking the tops off of homes in his area and those adjacent. This man, with his thick Louisiana drawl, was just making a stop at “one of his favorite places.” Turns out, his daughter lives up here, and during visits he became a big fan of this pop-art-lowbrow-whatever-the-fuck-it’s-supposed-to-be-called stuff. He got his daughter a t-shirt, we chatted about how much ass Ed “Big Daddy” Roth and Kenny “Von Dutch” Howard (the crafstman, not the sorority girl mesh hat brand) used to kick, and the movement of visual art that was flung from their rampant sprees of creativity. This man was a true appreciator, a real genuine person; honest in his speech and actions, and a potential victim with his good nature still about him. “If Gustav don’t get me, the looters will. They follow the evacuation trucks into town, and stay a fair bit later,” he said. But this guy’s gonna be alright. He’s got his life, and seems to really love it. I’m feeling that, dudes.

Anyways, now time for the poem. It’s not even mine. I found it here: The Blotter Magazine

“Generations”
by Jason Huskey

Slap her ass once for me!
It’s weird to hear the words garble through
the wall, knowing Grandpa’s snuck into
my cabinet again. Can only hope

he’s not watching our wedding video.
Bethany wakes and works the covers
off my body. Would you keep it down,
she whines, snorts, snores.

Grandpa’s been having a tough month
since Granny went to the west coast
with his convertible and a black man
half her weight. We’ve, well, I’ve

not slept in weeks, hearing his
wavering thoughts in the waning hours,
bedsprings squealing to the white noise
of one hand clapping without breath.

You can’t leave him like that!
Bethany sleeps without the torture,
and I’m starting to wonder just how
Granny walked away without guilt,

hearing him tidy up with my wife’s wash sponge.
If she ever finds out,
we’ll both be gone,
washed away with his withered sperm.

Happy Thurdsday, bitches.
Snakehawk.

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