Broke Down In Miniville
The old buckboard (read RV, silly!) broke down just as we passed the Y at Skidmore, axle sheared. Went to the local Goodyear, it was very a bad year (sorry,old blue eyes) , no darn Goodyear store in miniville. Mr. Bones' attire,
old army pants with quilt-work patches and a MASH T-shirt didn’t go well with the local yokels. Miss Betty Hass was showing too much thigh for the church-going hell-going crowd. We finally had to email the Amish poet/blacksmith Bin Therestillthere in Pennslyvania for a replacement part. Bin is probably the greatest Amish poet of this century, not a bad half-assed blacksmith either. Bin Fedaxed the axle to us, unfortunately Fedaxe does not deliver to mininville or minivile as Miss Betty Hass calls it. We had to take the Mexico to Dallas illegal express Brownhound to Beeville to pick up the part.
Meanwhile, Mr. Bones was reciting poetry to the locals, infuriating all of them. Henry wishing Mr. Bones was behind chickenwire, but the tomatoes never flew, perhaps , being unknown in these here parts. Henry kept sweating bullets the size of the ones on the deputies belt, the deputy cocked his cowboy hat and couldn’t quite figure out the Papalote Travelling Poetry Circus. But, from the look on his face you could tell he’d rather be french-kissing a greased pig then put up with this spectacle. Luckily I got the new axle on the buckboard and we headed out of Dodge just as a Dodge dually kicked up gravel in our faces. Pebbles flew up Miss Betty Hass’s short skirt.
From the back of the buckboard we had giant ghetto speakers that blared our mp3 collection. When it went from John Lennon’s Give Peace A Chance to Junior Brown’s Highway Patrol it startled the locals who had gathered to see the hippie trailride leave their hallowed ground. To make matters worse the Indonesian poet Chairil Anwar had climbed onto the roof of the buckboard and was reciting his poetry over the loud speaker, an ugly Junior Brown karaoke.
Like my mother , and my grandmother too,
plus seven generations before them
I also seek admission to heaven
which the Moslem Party and the Mohammedan Party
say has rivers of milk
and thousands of houris all over.
But there’s a contemplative voice inside of me,
stubbornly mocking: Can you ever
get dry after soaking in the blue sea,
after the sly temptations waiting in every port?
Anyway, who can say for sure
that there really are houris there
with voices as rich and husky as Nina’s, with eyes
that flirt like Jati’s?
The locals thought, “This guy just got off a freighter in Corpus Christi.” They were a clairvoyant crowd because Chairil had indeed just arrived in Corpus Christi by freighter. I was glad we were on the road again.