Tonight's Poet Corner: Haul Ass
Haul Ass
by Belinda Roddie
We hauled ass back in Kentucky,
with a hot swallow of shitty Tennessee whiskey
strapped to our hips in flagons, dripping
sap on our jeans. Jeremy put the truck in
neutral all the way down to the sweaty buttocks
of the country, where we chilled on the beach,
snorting sand with white gravel and breathing fumes
so fucking toxic, it was like we were a living,
flesh-bulging meth lab.
On the way back east, we
stopped by a graffiti lot, which was known for
just that: Being a parking lot with a
fuckload of graffiti. And we sprayed the shit
out of an abandoned Jeep with everything from
donkey dongs to uber
symbolic messages of pseudo-youth rebellion
and cerebral non-
sequiturs seeping from the nasal cavity,
where the Egyptians would extract our dreams with
spoons. We penetrated New York with our
arrogant libidos and stabbed Delaware right in its
suburban groin, while Dover's railroad depots
cried out to be ravished and
painted with just the right amount of tongue.
I kissed Barbara before she begged
to be taken back to Minnesota,
so Jeremy
whiplashed west to Minneapolis where,
for the first time, I heard a violinist and pianist
on the fucking street, no less, play some kind of
chant-like orgasm that I had never felt. Turns out
it was Arvo Pärt, and the piece was called,
"Fratres," and it was this surreally gorgeous
coke stream of sound, and I could not stop
listening to it. And when I didn't move fast enough,
the truck and the insect gang I had shared a hive
with bailed without me, leaving me
steaming on the asphalt, with the violinist
smirking with honeycomb jammed between her
teeth, teasing me with her horse-hair bow,
beckoning for me to go inside with her.
So I slept in a cheap hotel room, chirping
night lights at three am, while they dragged bottom
all the way to Montana before a wildfire
snarled at them, and they choked on the
smoke of their own cigarettes. I slept,
until morning crept in like a stalker,
poking me in all of my raw orifices until I
woke up, and the same violinist had
honeycomb in her smile when she checked on me,
and with her hair down, she teased me,
beckoning for me to play outside with her.
by Belinda Roddie
We hauled ass back in Kentucky,
with a hot swallow of shitty Tennessee whiskey
strapped to our hips in flagons, dripping
sap on our jeans. Jeremy put the truck in
neutral all the way down to the sweaty buttocks
of the country, where we chilled on the beach,
snorting sand with white gravel and breathing fumes
so fucking toxic, it was like we were a living,
flesh-bulging meth lab.
On the way back east, we
stopped by a graffiti lot, which was known for
just that: Being a parking lot with a
fuckload of graffiti. And we sprayed the shit
out of an abandoned Jeep with everything from
donkey dongs to uber
symbolic messages of pseudo-youth rebellion
and cerebral non-
sequiturs seeping from the nasal cavity,
where the Egyptians would extract our dreams with
spoons. We penetrated New York with our
arrogant libidos and stabbed Delaware right in its
suburban groin, while Dover's railroad depots
cried out to be ravished and
painted with just the right amount of tongue.
I kissed Barbara before she begged
to be taken back to Minnesota,
so Jeremy
whiplashed west to Minneapolis where,
for the first time, I heard a violinist and pianist
on the fucking street, no less, play some kind of
chant-like orgasm that I had never felt. Turns out
it was Arvo Pärt, and the piece was called,
"Fratres," and it was this surreally gorgeous
coke stream of sound, and I could not stop
listening to it. And when I didn't move fast enough,
the truck and the insect gang I had shared a hive
with bailed without me, leaving me
steaming on the asphalt, with the violinist
smirking with honeycomb jammed between her
teeth, teasing me with her horse-hair bow,
beckoning for me to go inside with her.
So I slept in a cheap hotel room, chirping
night lights at three am, while they dragged bottom
all the way to Montana before a wildfire
snarled at them, and they choked on the
smoke of their own cigarettes. I slept,
until morning crept in like a stalker,
poking me in all of my raw orifices until I
woke up, and the same violinist had
honeycomb in her smile when she checked on me,
and with her hair down, she teased me,
beckoning for me to play outside with her.
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