Mud Duck

[dar]

My husband, Gordon, has written prose poems for many years. He's never shared them. (Except with Snow, of course.) Probably because his style could be misunderstood (racial slurs, cussing, strange grammer, etc.) But, I figured, what the hell. Why not post one? There may be someone out there who might "get it". Bear in mind, this is one of his "milder" ones. If you ever want to read anything else, let me know. But be warned, they are not for the faint of heart. O, and his paintings are really something else! Dar

Mud Duck
Larry was a bouncer, a low-down dried-up raisin at local places, cash places, back roads, and dark spaces in the very prick of glitter in the sought after night spaces. After lockjaw and the look of nigger faces he tried to dominate the life. A life of boogie. The slick, sheep-haired, gas mask of unholy, still in the hills for blue soft fucked glory. The lace on ones face of a credence reached to gain the goat in the race. Still the piano paced hell of reason to gain separation in all ceased. He hailed, hailed I say, hailed in the faces of June and Ward against the still stagnant detergent of our very American fiber. The Negro glows like a midget in the blossom of dawn’s flowers. Still he’s trying b’ness dreams on the back of food stamps, still havin’ dreams of gov’ment cheese, canned beef. After a lifetime of excess having brandy spilled on one’s sullen mug of reason. The road’s all narrow, paved in life for our Larry sleeping in the autumn dust, splendidly. Thrills, old age, brings long forgotten infancy. The clouds of Chinese diaper houses, the long stair-stepped lines of dirty old bastards still grindingly rocking to forget the songs of one’s youth. Innocence the lines, they move so slow, faces ponder at each other’s eyes to see who’s next. The odor of incense and romantic spices still trying to connect the pleasure of one’s unbridled reason. Of taking one’s cock out for a peak through inspection. The turns happen quick as one rides in a father’s arms. The ride that you wish you could stay on. The unequalled still of confinement. Still looking for long-forgotten father figures, the nigger’s burden lays him to a life of confinement. The trick of life, the unabsolute logic inbred to make all crimes seem innocent to one’s own self. Still a feast of fresh sassafras summer greens, the unspoiled treat of the Orient, the lies, that come with sending home pillows of silk now sold at flea markets, thrift places, and the back yard fences, garage sales. Fencing missing white pickets like whale’s teeth on the soft Seoul sand. His hands still clasping the dove. Still stolen for its unequaled roots. It’s still level glance of one’s rigid self. Mm, mm, mm..The church has an unholy gossip on their chicken roasts on Fridays. Still the Chinks out to reap Whities forgotten fruits of money. But it’s still on credit overhead. Hail the Gooks economy the walls of mercy can’t help the pity one feels when our family existed on a fair plain of Arkansas dirt. The box long since paid for. Nor could winter or fair weather friends of mercy give a fuck about you, Larry. Who in this life gives a shit and stops traffic for a legless black child from Jersey? Gordon Beem June 2000 - Cochise, Arizona