Here’s the funny thing about Death/Metal:
killing softly is outside the bounds
over and above everything else
harder than you think
submerged in dirt death and metal
shake hands. That hand is
biggest little city in the
They go crazy for it, which doesn’t make any sense if you think about it. Honestly, if one
believes in nothing, then how can you believe in Satan and the End of Days and skin
charring away and severed heads. But if one believes in something—death, steel, the
severed skin of an old Oklahoma Model Ford truck—then how wonderful it must be,
rising up from the dirt, from the middle of one’s Satanic days, to find oneself newly born,
slathered in the oil of the mainstream righteous. Then one shakes hands with the very
Dip one toe into the canal and dry it off.
The dirt is warm and waiting.
Do you believe in scarification by fiat?
You know the type. They say, “Oh crap, the sun!” like a gin-scarfing Rin-tin-tin .
Can we tolerate that kind of riff-raff in the Caboose of the Upper Lower Middle Plains?
I watered my lawn on New Year’s Day and hoped my Hoppin John made a difference.
The canals here need more water. Dig deeper. Doesn’t matter, the wind blows more
sand chokes it off. And the wind has got nothin’
on the sun. The sun beats down like metal and death
turns me into someone I’m not. On a good day,
I give in and listen. After a while, you learn to hear it coming.