A backyard full of bummed-out
Corvettes and rusty motorcycles, Triumphs, Harleys, parents acting like
children, there they are. The driveway talks by spitting gravel underneath fast
tires and yelling curses: Goddamn,
Son-of-a-bitch most common. At sundown, ditches of spilled beer drain
into a porch already water-damaged. A screendoor snaps against the pane, weaker
than a nine millimeter being shot into the nightwoods. At sunrise, a backyard
full of forgotten and misplaced mesh hats that read Peckerwood Power or Damn,
I’m Good! or Holler Louder I
Can’t Hear You. Sometimes a denim skirt or a pair of panties lay
morning-dewed. But there's also a quiet, a stillness. Inside, a child dreams a
future of a hundred homemade tattoos, crooked shapes, nasty letters, demon
numbers, copperheads with bullet holes, bald heads, a million women to call
mother, and a father who can't crank his motorcycle fast enough.
Garrett Crowe
Jujitsu for Christ
Jack Butler