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The Neighbor Girl
When I’m drunk I dream of the neighbor girl
even though she is only sixteen
and has a face pocked with zits.
Her build is like a middle linebacker
with thick shoulders, big floppy titties,
and a train-wreck of an ass.
Her long black hair drips with grease
and in the summer her sweat-stained pits
smell like Italian dressing.
When the kids call her Sweaty Betty
I laugh right along with them,
but deep down I think she is beautiful.
My heart sings:
I love you, neighbor girl.
The yellow sweat rings in the armpits
of your white t-shirt are like a golden sun.
Your stinky pits are the sweetest perfume.
The grease from your hair will lubricate
my truck and four-wheeler.
Your zits are like constellations in the sky.
I want to play connect the dots
on your purple cheeks.
Don’t shave for me.
The curly hairs on your legs and pits are
a mysterious forest full of trophy bucks.
I cock my deer rifle for you.
The scope has you in
the cross hairs.
My trigger finger is itchy.
I aim just below the shoulder blade
to bring you down nice and clean.
Stinky
My old lady’s underwear
is lying on the bathroom floor.
They are stained green, brown,
and red from her dirty pee hole.
All night long they lie on the tile,
festering and attracting flies.
Early in the morning,
I catch wind of them and nearly throw up.
Later I watch her put on
the stinky underwear.
They ride up her crack
and get lost in her fat rolls.
With a quick shake of her ass cheeks,
they appear again.
Still stained, still stinky.
I Just Want to Tell You
I have grubbed
down the hot dogs
that was in
the fridge
which you was
gonna microwave
for my breakfast
I’m sorry
I was starving
because you can’t
get off your
lazy ass
to cook me
bacon and eggs
Waiting
When I’m hunting, I’m happy.
It’s cold out. The sky is
black and gray like my rotten
tooth that pains me so much.
The leaves are dry and have
fallen from the trees, so I have a
hard time sneaking up on Bambi.
When I go home to the trailer
I’m greeted by my old lady bitching
and the kids screaming.
My heart feels funny.
I am crushed.
Ain’t my kids as ugly
as a bear turd or
must one be a dummy to
get older?
It seems like misery
tripped up my hunting boots.
Let me see! Let me see!
How did I plan to shoot my wife,
bury her in the swamp,
and tell everybody she
ran off to Florida?
Love Song
I lie here thinking of beating you:-
The stain in my under-britches
is upon the world!
Brown, brown, brown
it seeps out of my butt hole
and it smears my Fruit
of the Looms.
There is no smell
only a thick stain
that drips from leaf to leaf
and branch to branch
spoiling the colors of
Mercer County-
you over there who thinks you’re
better than me because you got
promoted to line foreman!
Portrait of my Old Lady
Your thighs are a tree stand
that stink up the sky.
Which sky?
The sky I’ll curse until the
day I die for being stupid
enough to marry you.
Your knees are a chili fart-or
a stuffed cabbage fart. Pew!
Why do you cry when I laugh
about your daddy touching you
down there when you was twelve?
Answer me woman!
Oh, yes-pretty soon your titties
will sag below your knees.
And on one white summer day they
will reach your ankles.
The tall grass that grows in
the woods will tickle your nipples.
Which woods?
The woods I’ll buy with the
insurance money on the day I
beat you to death.
The Buck Rut
If when the old lady is at bingo
and the kids are with their grandmother
and the moon is like a giant white cue ball-
If I in the woods behind the trailer take off all my
hunting clothes and dance naked, admiring my fat gut,
hairy ass, and shriveled pecker-
If I wave my blaze orange vest above my head,
smear myself with buck scent, stick the barrel
of a shotgun up my ass and scream-
I am horny! I am horny! I am always horny and I
have to hump something other than my old lady’s
warm pee hole!
Who are you to say you’re better than me?
Beagle
My beagle
looks at me
expecting a Milk Bone.
But since he ate
the cat turds
from the litterbox,
all I got for him
is a buffalo wing
where my heart should be.
Goodnight, Rudy
It’s midnight. I can’t sleep.
My old lady is snoring beside me.
Her potato chip farts fill the night.
Outside a racoon cries,
Mourning his dead mate.
Her pelt is hanging in my basement.
A drink would do me good.
There’s no beer in the fridge,
Only juice for the kids,
A jelly donut,
And some left over Taco Bell.
I weep.
My truck don’t make a sound
As it leaves the garage.
The headlights are off
So my old lady don’t know.
I floor it,
Forgetting stop signs,
Hoping to make last call at Rudy’s.
The door is locked, but I knock all the same.
I see Rudy though the window,
Doing shots and crying
over his old lady.
Dead one year this May.
His eyes light up when they see me.
We drink to last year’s hunting.
A doe for him, a ten-point buck for me.
He laughs and calls me a poacher.
The sun has risen when I empty my glass.
Old Rudy’s breathing is shallow.
I carry him to bed, grab one for the road,
And drag my ass back to the truck.
The road sings me a lullaby.
The kids are leaving for school
When I pull in the driveway
And hit the fence post.
I sleep.
Goodnight, children.
Goodnight, Rudy.
