May 20, 2024Bubba Country
Nineteen and drivin my fly ass whip
to Malvern to visit my grandparents.
Could taste freshly killed bird and home
fries cooked in a skillet cast in 1914.
Sugar, honey, baby, swirled in the air
I breathed. And that foul goat Rocky,
who chased me when I was eleven,
that bastard still had the run of the farm
but now had tennis balls on his horns.
Drove on I-20 stereo bumpin
stopped at the Blue Monkey Lounge
for a leak and caffeine. I knew I was in bubba
country when nigger this nigger
that slurred from a man in Carhartt overalls
slobbering drunk and staggering my way.
The crowd drifted back but the nigger
shit didn’t faze me after living in the south.
I wasn’t going to run from a fist fight.
The asshole pulled a pussy gun,
a twenty-two that spat a bullet
eight millimeters into my shin. Blood
gushed over my boot as I ran. Bullet
wound flamed when I put in the clutch.
Tongue felt heavy, face weighted and drained.
Stopped in front of the police station, world
dark in my vision. Lay my fist on the horn.
Pissed off cop came out to see what was wrong.
Dude was six seven six eight and called me
son. Carried me like a baby into the station,
asked a few questions, dispatched
a car to the bar. Felt like a forklift
when he hoisted me back up against his body
armor. I slumped in the rear of his vehicle.
The doc at the hospital called me
sir. Plucked that bullet with a pair of blue
plastic forceps. Filled the hole with bone putty.
Hurt like a motherfucker. Called Grandma.
She blessed me out for not calling sooner.
Grandpa wanted to off the guy.
The asshole at the bar was still tossing
back shots when the cops arrived.
Got three hots and a cot for two years.
If I had walked into the bar and shot
that redneck for fun, I would have been
drug behind a truck or hung.
from #83 – Collaboration