RED DIRT #4

UPDATES:

New art added to ART page (“Minotaur in Pac Man Labyrinth”). I think the title is self-explanatory.

MINOTAUR IN PAC MAN LABYRINTH, 16 x 20 acrylic & oil pastel on black canvas by Jesse Sublett, Austin Author and Artist at large, $400.

MINOTAUR IN PAC MAN LABYRINTH, 16 x 20 acrylic & oil pastel on black canvas by Jesse Sublett $400.

June 20, 2014 is new release date for Broke, Not Broken: Homer Maxey’s Texas Bank War, by Broadus Spivey and Jesse Sublett.

For the past few months I’ve been working as a co-writer for The Beer Diaries World Tour, an online TV show focusing on craft beer, travel and culture. View the series online at http://thebeerdiaries.tv, and keep up with the screenings of new episodes on Facebook. New episodes are screened at the first of the month, including the Whip In episode tonight at 8 PM at the fabulous Whip In.

I’ve also been recording new demos at a cool little studio (with Jimi Teasdale and Carey Bowman of the Coffee Sergeants twiddling the knobs, and Kim Simpson on guitar and Bill Mansell on drums, me on upright bass and vocals) with an ultimate scheme to release an EP soon. I’ll post some teasers here and on Facebook when we finish overdubs. I hope you’ll dig these sounds.

And now, more of RED DIRT. (If you’d like to read the previous chapters, go to Red Dirt #1, Red Dirt #2, and Red Dirt #3).

RED DIRT #4

THE GREY LIONS OF BLACK OPS

All it was
was a fire in the neon sign in the window
the grill had gone out
back in the Reagan years.

The jukebox had a blown speaker
low notes rattled, high notes buzzed
something had come loose inside there
a wire or screw
everything in the place
buzzed or rattled

the asthmatic old killer
who pushed a broom around
the place now and then
And Melanoma Mick
with his terrible cough
and the pawnshop guy
whose pencil thin mustach
you were always trying rub off
with your sandpaper pussy
the whole squad of irregulars
the old A-Team with their pockets full of hex signs
the grey lions of black ops
too juiced up and toxic
to bury without all kinds of permit
too voluble to risk incinerating
each one of the old demons
knew too little, remembered
too much,
owned by no one,
too dead already
to be afraid

VIKING BRIDE ON A CANOE OF FIRE

She was a cedar plank gal from way back
clinker built
caulked with beeswax
canvas rags
rawhide oarlocks

THE GRAND CANYON OF HANGOVERS

another gut-shot day
crawled out of the mouth
of a whisky bottle
crash landed between
the liver purple sky
and the dark underneath

LOVE SONG

Stumbling drunk
through the minefield of your love
how I wish my feet were not so big
nor your breasties so delicious.

SKIPTRACER BLUES

The merits of suicide vs. writing a country song
being hard to write
when you’re handcuffed to a bail bondsman

an ex-Eskimo ice road trucker
almost too small to qualify for statehood
too large
to kill and chop into pieces in one night

the back of his head ascended from
the Alaskan expanse of his back
on rolls of fat stacked like sausages

carried himself with a natural wariness
a walking empire
always answering questions that demanded specifics with
“Why worry? Don’t get your tits in a ringer.“

END OF THIS CHAPTER — HAVE FAITH. ONLY ONE MORE TO GO

 

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