jericsmith.com
A 2004 Chapbook
by J. Eric Smith.
1. JEFFERSON WATER
I'm goin' down, drinkin' that Jefferson Water again,
straight out the bottle, no twist or tie to bind it,
no splash, no garnish, no East Saint Tonic on it,
black as the soul of coal, poured brimstone smooth,
Old Mister Jefferson's special formula fifty two,
brewed out in a Packard chassis in Upper Crawford,
slow molasses drip under a tipped up crescent moon,
well and soon, still distilled illicit ills, pills and thrills,
thunder bubbled, green mash flashed and flasked fast,
as Jefferson's first born boy loads up the ox cart,
his blind daddy whippin' the rotten air with a cane,
rollin' down carriage lanes through Porterstown
and Bisco City, Eastern Hellebore, Locust, Clyde,
rollin' on down that dead rail line, bringin' me mine,
black as the tar in my belly, black as sin's own ass,
pure as poison an' dark as yon Estabella River's water,
rotten roots and rat's hair, no bottom in sight, nowhere,
so thick an' strong that light itself dies whimperin',
makin' all the noises I make whenever I fall in again.
2. THAW
Unbundled, unbound and resuscitated,
as the hated freeze leaves us, we perambulate,
embracing first thaw, a date we've long contemplated
through the faded, dark months here in
Savage winters force us to truly appreciate
thaws (early or late): these reprieves are consummated
by elated pasty wraiths watching snow dissipate,
our great warming joy pure, clear and concentrated.
3. SLOW MOTION SLEEP
We dreamed of weeks well spent in but
a passing hour
as the clock's hands jellied, and our exhalations congealed.
The inestimable evening stretched out far before us,
its terminus and interim loci cleverly, completely concealed.
Shapeless like punctured ctenophores, we drifted, basking
in those warm estuaries of our long Precambrian dawn.
As parsecs collapsed into points of radium on watch dials,
we woke, briefly, looked cross the bed, and then slept on.
4. CODEX
Aethelwulf wrote
on the skin of a goat:
"cecidit corona capitis
nostri; vae nobis,
quia peccavimus,"
dipping the hollowed quill of a goose
in iron gall ink and thick
gum arabic.
Candle wax fell
in the monastic cell
as the parchment was laid out and dried;
the new Jeremiad
was illuminated
with figures Aethelwulf created
during dark ergot dreams
of profane things.
5. DRAGON
From out of Silena they creep
with today's tribute: my two sheep.
I feign sleep, they close their gate.
Spearing the fat ewe with a claw,
I stuff her squirming in my maw,
as my paw crushes her mate.
Soon the shepherds' stocks will run low,
they have my terms, my quid pro quo.
They all know the rules of trade.
Two sheep are equal to one girl child,
tender and sweet, the flesh so mild,
not like the wild meat I raid.
I lounge, lazy, by my black lake
and pray the Lord their sheep to take,
craving a break from stinking ewes.
I've heard whispers of some new knight
bragging that he will ease their plight.
I think I might be amused.
I find his ambition charming and quaint;
it's been some time since I've eaten a saint.
6. THE WINKIE REFLECTS
We're singing, something along the lines of
"Oh, we love the old one."
Boots crunch in time to the drum,
then the flying monkeys come.
Was that woodsman made of chrome? Or just tin?
Straw plowed into the loam,
teeth picked with a lion's bone,
tonight, there's no place like home.
(Outside the fortress, sinking in the bog:
the remains of a young girl and her dog).
7. ARE YOU GONNA EAT THAT?
"Are you gonna eat that?" I asked her,
as she picked around her leftovers,
hiding things under a parsley cover.
She smiled at me and shook her head.
"All yours, eat 'em up, yum," she answered,
fatless and rail thin, like a dancer,
chemo eating both her and the cancer.
Who's gonna feed me when she's dead?
8. HONEYBEE KILLS
(queens
eat their child-kings)
honeybee kills
june bug thrills
locust spits and sings
arthropod gang
swarm und drang
plague of flying things
hail of whining wings
rain of painful stings
pill bug rolls
walking stick strolls
dung the beetle brings
mantis prays
cicada stays
(buried twelve more springs)
9. THEY ALL SHINE NOW
My wife
and our neighbors,
school friends and coworkers:
I'm still here, but they've all left me,
all dead. I live:
eighty seven
years old next month, if the
Lord doesn't take me before then.
No dread, I'm old.
That was the point,
wasn't it? Eat healthy,
don't smoke, live to a ripe old age,
(alone). Regrets?
Not many, no.
I've lived a good, full life,
nothing too dreadful for which to
atone. Talking,
telling stories
to a much younger man.
I know him a little bit, not
too well. Better
that way, maybe.
They're new stories to him,
and if I embellish, then he
can't tell. My wife
and our neighbors,
school friends and coworkers:
they all shine now, in my stories,
my life. We talk,
the man and I.
It's nice, I enjoy it,
I just wish that he could have met
my wife.
10. CRONUS
Olive oil and sea salt
are helpful when eating your children.
Once you get each of them down,
you just don't want
to taste them again.
I
know I'm fated to be
overthrown by my daughters and sons.
That's why I'm making Rhea
feed them to me,
one by stinking one.
Hades
tasted like old socks,
Hera sickly sweet, like rotten plums.
Poseidon was quite briny,
sucked the moisture
right out of my gums.
Demeter,
though, was better:
nutty and ripe, with a hint of yeast.
I just kept tasting ashes
when Hestia
featured in my feast.
The
hardest one to swallow
was young Zeus, he nearly cracked my crowns.
It was all that I could do
to grind him up
and then get him down.
I'm
not feeling well tonight,
and Rhea's off Goddessing somewhere.
I keep thinking I hear Zeus,
but that can't be.
Who is that out there?
11. THREE BINARIES
First Binary: Patience Plowed the Path
to our Repose
i.
Certainty is something solid surrounded by fantasy,
the clearest, strongest dream in the bed of destiny.
ii.
We slumber in a cold, mean garden of years and ideas
through which chiseled warriors force their way with spears.
Second Binary: Ugly and Improbable
i.
Our ugliest situations were the most revealing,
uncovering heroes that we'd been concealing.
ii.
We stand atop grey, improbable cliffs;
petulant, we stomp, and pollute our own myths.
Third Binary: Hudna's Regret
i.
Don't tell me that I'm out of touch
for doing nothing: I've done too much.
ii.
The one thing that I didn't do
was the only thing I wanted to.
12. THE BURDEN OF
He knew of what he spoke, did their old Comforter:
the Shatterer has been here; Huzzab's been led away.
It's quiet, now, here in our fallen, bloody city;
our leaders, like the locusts, they all scattered yesterday.
We cankerworms remain, (though he'd thought that we'd crawl off;
the fear of yon deep desert is, for us, still far too great).
Now, these abominable filth heaps lie piled up all around us,
as we swat flies and gather grain by the city's broken gate.
We are all well aware that distant
and that we survivors are now kin to her dust-eating stock.
No one weeps for us anymore, since Huzzab's maids all died
and since our strongholds were reduced back to mortar and rock,
and dry sand, since their Lord rebuked our fickle river,
just the way that their Comforter told us that He would.
As night falls and the lions begin to growl in the gloaming,
we huddle 'midst the ruins, Nahum's words now understood.
13. THE PORTACRIB OF CIVILIZATION
the old tribes floated up the river in their doublewide house boats,
found a sandy spot on an oxbow shore lined with pines and palmettos,
pulled their boats from the water, set them on cinder blocks in a circle,
posted watch around the perimeter as the children chased their goats.
they sent search parties into the woods, where they found grocery stores,
bait and tackle shops and feed lots, storage units and satellite dish farms,
they traded goats for cheese, and casseroles for tractors, grew indigo and
rice,
sent their children to learn the school languages and abducted local whores.
the rate of births there was generally double the rate of deaths, more or less,
occasional skirmishes on the oxbow kept the population in proper check,
and in due time the story of the long journey up the river was mythologized,
and they would ceremonially wade into the water to sing, pray and confess.
the circle of beached doublewide trailers had grown into a bustling town,
with its own feed lots and pharmacies, storage unit farms and satellite dishes,
and wireless broadcasting cabals that spread their leaders' words and the
weather,
until that fateful autumn when hurricane malachi knocked the whole place down,
and
the old tribes floated down the river in the flotsam of their oxbow city,
sacks of rice stained purple by indigo strapped to the sides of their tractors,
carports and campers carried downstream over rapids and out into the ocean,
where they were largely lost to history, which we must regard as quite the
pity.
14. TREPANG
Don't forget to bring old Pak Suhud
his sea cucumbers and sandalwood
in resinous cones and in certain soups,
with complementary hand-peeled drupes.
The bicho do mar should be well
cured,
their curative powers are then assured
by smoking them in the sandalwood,
or so says crafty old Pak Suhud.
15. GEMINI SNAKE
Gemini Snake coming out of the forest,
all through the night, he rolls on, he rolls on,
I had a dream he was headed this way, and
I'm thinkin' he'll get here tomorrow, 'round dawn.
Gemini Snake at the edge of the farmlands,
he never stops, he rolls on, he rolls on,
went to the church to tell Preacher he's coming,
and bone up a bit on those visions of John's.
Gemini Snake in the next village over,
spinning off sparks, he rolls on, he rolls on,
on the horizon, we see smoke arising,
we tend to our crops and chew bitter pecans.
Gemini Snake coming faster and faster,
right into town, he rolls on, he rolls on,
passes the town square and court house on
damned if he doesn't roll right to my lawn.
Gemini Snake passes straight through my property,
he doesn't stop, he rolls on, he rolls on,
where he is headed now, I can't imagine,
but I'm quite relieved by the fact that he's gone.
16. MISTER AND MISSUS CLOWN
Mister and Missus Clown
and their twelve evil sons
piled into the clown mobile and fled
the scene of carnage, laughing,
slapping baggy pants,
for Horace, the ringmaster, was dead.
Mister and Missus Clown
and their tightly packed brood
drove all through the night, then stopped at dawn,
pitching their striped umbrellas
and buckets of gilt,
they slept off the madness, and then drove on.
Mister and Missus Clown
and their ravenous spawn
joined another circus in the spring.
They were model employees
until the day when
they ate the bearded lady, center ring.
17. THE CEDARS OF CHALYBEATE HOLLOW
Just look at them there cedars,
man, they're gorgeous and they're fragrant,
above the springs
with the red iron water,
they've got to be quite ancient.
We sit beneath them resting,
soon the half of us are snoring,
but we'll wake up
real quick, just as soon as
the chainsaws start their roaring.
We'll cut the trees to pieces
and then sell them in the city,
where fancy folks
put chips in their closets
to make their clothes smell pretty.
18. MYSTERY SHOPPER
I walked into
needing me some bullets and some other store bought
goods,
with my old mule Henry, loaded down with dried out
furs,
that'd make some damn fine coats, once you picked
out all the burrs.
As I walked along the lane, all the people turned and gawked,
'til I got to the general store, tried the handle, found it locked.
And then it hit me a'sudden: it was a Sunday here in town,
that's why all the dressed-up folks was all a-promenadin' 'round.
So me and my mule Henry, we went and found ourselves a park,
sat there 'neath a live oak tree until it got all good and dark.
I thought we'd make us a camp then, light a fire and get some rest,
then I mulled some other plans, and finally found one I liked best.
Back to the store we walked and, man, I kicked that damned door in,
shot the store keep in his bed, then drank his patent medicine.
Then me and Henry, we went home, back to our house out in the woods,
with the furs we was gonna trade, the bullets and some other goods.
19. MY GARISH LIFE
Suffer me, for a moment, my garish life:
party colored and loud, improper and rude.
A plein air study of compulsion and strife,
dark routes taken, trails of equipoise eschewed.
Indulge me, if you're able, a turning back,
a quick glance behind to see what's growing there.
Drunkenly sown? Sprouting from some sidewalk crack?
Suffer me, for a moment, my garish life:
toxic, noxious, yet alluring. Like some rare
glowing deep water fish, waiting to attack
its neighbors, who are drawn by its gaudy snare:
Party colored and loud, improper and rude.
Work with me, for a moment, link fact to fact;
with oil and canvas make substance from air.
Then slash it with razors, and trim it in black:
A plein air study of compulsion and strife.
Forgive me, if you're able, when I despair
of a life's detritus: stolen bric-a-brac,
apple carts spilled, china shops in disrepair,
dark routes taken, trails of equipoise eschewed.
Morose, verbose, yet alluring, in a track
of my own making, to be perfectly fair.
But the most awful among us have the knack
for finding the spotlight, and then staying there.
Suffer me, for a moment.
20. BARB
I guess I pity that bee that stung me,
her stinger ripped right out of her abdomen,
poison sac pumping automatically,
as she flew away, never to sting again.
I'm thinking of that bee as I lay here,
unable to move in my gardening frock.
My suffering, like hers, is quite severe,
as I'm succumbing to anaphylactic shock.
Each of us did our share to encourage floral growth,
until our unfortunate chance encounter killed us both.
21. IN THE DAY ROOM
Methuselah got nothin', man, on me,
he dodders, whereas I don't look that old:
this week I turn nine hundred sixty three.
Those scripture fellas just won't let him be,
but pity that my own tale ain't been told:
Methuselah got nothin', man, on me.
I fished from
got rich on all the roe that I once sold.
This week I turn nine hundred sixty three.
I had some slaves, but then I set 'em free.
My eighteenth wife, I'll tell you, was a scold.
Methuselah got nothin', man, on me.
I'm older than yon great big cedar tree,
I've watched a dozen empires rise and fold.
This week I turn nine hundred sixty three.
But now, I only hope I live to see
that old fool down the hall laid out stone cold:
Methuselah got nothin', man, on me,
this week I turn nine hundred sixty three.
22. THE BATTLE OF BRANXTON HOLLOW
Those fellas in blue came marching
from out of the west, two by two,
they camped at the edge of my forest,
made fires and played sad songs
while their sentries paced through the night
stomping through the mud of my fresh
plowed fields.
They looked hard, but they saw nothing:
their enemies, dressed in green, struck at dawn,
sweeping down the hill by my curing shed,
shouting as they ran into the camp,
the blue shirts grabbed for their boots,
some shot before they'd gotten the laces unknotted.
It was quite the rout that day, right here,
the green boys chasing the surviving blues
back into the west from whence they'd come,
I figured they'd soon be back
to bury the dead, to pillage the camp,
to act like I thought that victorious soldiers did.
But that was two months ago on Tuesday,
and I'm alone here digging up my fields,
undertaker to a army of
folks from places I've never seen.
I didn't kill 'em, no sir, but I'll bury 'em,
seems to me like it's the right thing to do.
I wonder, as I shovel, what the writers
will say about this skirmish, years from now.
Will they know this place is called Branxton Hollow?
And that my father first settled it?
Will they know that I'd have planted tobacco
had I not been digging graves all summer long.
I think I'll make me a sign some day,
like the ones I see back in town,
"On this spot, once, was a battle,
some folks ran, some stayed and died,
then a farmer dug them some makeshift graves."
And I guess that's really all that I'd have to say.
23. COW CATCHER
The engineer stands way back in the
dusty cab
of the 2-6-2 engine rolling southwest from Canadys,
bound first for Hampton and then for Savannah,
heavy with a load of southern yellow pine trees.
The sun's setting there directly out in front of him,
so he squints and blinks beneath his stained denim cap,
ringing his bell periodically, in good force of habit,
just to alert anything caught unawares in his path.
He turns to checks his steam pressure; there's a thump
and he sees some broken thing as it flies into the field.
He keeps on steaming, thankful for the welded black iron wedge
that kept whatever it was from derailing his engine's wheels.
24. FIELD AGENTS
"Let him out, he's coming now, he's alone,"
(I can not tolerate the taste of this megaphone).
Deep in the coop, the fox, he sees that some hens have flown,
his cover's blown, (tympanic bone, Rosetta stone).
And then the hawk drops down from his perch on high,
(spearing the fox through, he lets out a little cry),
Justice is quick here, we stand and we watch him die,
I dunno why (fluorescent dye, blueberry pie).
We pull the poor poultry out from the killing floor
(some of the pups get sick there in the feath'ry gore),
out on the lawn, we stack them up and note the score:
it's twenty-four (esprit de corps, espectador).
Back in the barn, now, safe in our little stalls
(I watch those damn bugs climbing around the walls),
We sleep and eat hay, waiting 'til duty calls,
as the time crawls (
25. BLACKBERRIES
She looks out
over horizons of stout
hedges, knotted, overgrown.
Alone, now, without a doubt.
She ambles
down paths, climbs rocky scrambles,
after a while, each route ends
with impassable brambles.
She ponders
her future as she wanders
'neath towering berry walls,
tall curtains on the yonder.
She hurries
back home, sick with vague worries
that the berries will soon veil
the trail down which she scurries.
She wishes
for simple loaves or fishes.
Something to break the routine
of mean blackberry dishes.
She buries
her father, and then carries
her tools back up to the house,
mouth full of ripe blackberries.
26. STONE
The outcrop rose from deep beneath our western field,
each foot above the loam
was matched by twelve that were concealed.
A berg of rock in grassy seas, the standing stone
was covered with old moss
and cryptic marks from days unknown.
On one face there appeared to be a simple cross
carved over older signs,
their names and meanings long since lost.
Around the rock, beneath the grass, were stony lines,
old maps of fairy trails,
and ley paths from those ancient times.
As children we sat by the stone and made up tales,
forged crowns of daffodils
and built straw houses for our snails.
We grew and left the farm to work in textile mills.
In dreams about our field,
I touch that stone, then wake with chills.
27. PSALM
Consider the righteous man of the land
who loves the green trees and the singing birds,
(those master details of God's own creation,
those little millions beheld with affection).
Through his love, the land beneath him
and all the creatures that live upon it
transcend their earthly, mortal natures,
and become, in time, divine, sublime;
he sees God's mind through human eyes.
28. ANESTHETIZED
no data, doesn't matter
get some facts and force them into
tangled webs of gossamer
and lies
the scientists are vying
with the publicists and naturalists
romanticists and classicists
and spies
the talking heads are talking
as the chopping blocks are chopping
and the commentators comment on it all
home looking, works cooking
we crash the couch and force the spike
into our flaccid arteries
and let the world
fall upon us with a sigh
on flat screen tablets
and in digital surround
on a rising stream of noise we swim
it engulfs us and we drown again
anesthetized
'til tomorrow when
we rise
like Lazarus
to walk again
29. THE BOOTS OF SLEEP II
Leap out of the boots of sleep,
rip open the sash,
assault the innocent morn
with bayonets of caffeine,
bullets of bacon,
and fried chickens (yet unborn).
Feint and thrust decisively
in your turbo Saab,
liberate the passing lane,
evade capture, play Wagner,
survey the bunker,
seize your cubicle again.
Review plans and strategies,
goals and objectives,
rally yon weary minions,
Patton at the water tank:
damn
and his weak-chinned opinions!
Carpe diem, warrior,
office commando,
Sherman of the morning shift,
strike while the world is sleepy,
but save
as a presidential gift.
Burn brightly, flash, flare and die
by second smoke break
outside of your fortress keep,
anesthetized by donuts,
collapse on your shield,
slip into the boots of sleep.
30. OWL HOUSE
asio, tyto, pulsatrix,
ninox, bubo, otus and strix,
latin genera
snakes from hera
minerva
artemis
nocturnal carnivorous bird
silent in the gloaming has stirred
night flights from owl house
meadow jumping mouse
before the plows
who has heard
soft pellets from the owl house rain
bed made bone and fur counterpane
down flow the feathers
chilly night weather
bird leather
charles's wain
lilith, askefruer, artemis
tiamat, morgan reminisce
night rites standing stones
grasshopper mouse bones
birthing moans
owl houses
31. HIRAM OF
Hiram heard that I was putting on a
new palace extension:
a den, a sun room, a hot tub, a patio with a pit for fire.
Him being a good neighbor type (and owing me some favors),
he went and sent cedar, fir and craftsman down from distant
His craftsmen, man, let me tell you about these guys:
they knew their stuff, there was nothing they couldn't build,
my house staff bristled at having them there, at first,
until they saw that Hiram's boys were really, truly skilled.
They knocked off the extension, perfectly, in no time flat,
then used the leftover cedar to make crown molding for me,
which they installed all around the palace, it sure looks nice.
I'm gonna thank Hiram with a few more villages in
I was thinking they were done at that point, but I was wrong:
Hiram's guys went ahead and wired the palace for the internet.
Then they built a satellite dish out of fir scrap wood and bronze;
I get 180 channels now, though I haven't watched them all yet.
All my old plumbing has been fitted up with clean copper pipe,
and they renovated the boiler room with new instruments and controls.
They took up the rugs and put screws into the squeaky floorboards,
refinishing the wood so well you can't even see their holes.
I threw a great big party for the craftsmen on their last day here,
they showed up with a huge cast statue of me, a really nice piece.
I can't recommend them highly enough for your own home improvements:
they're the best darn general contractors anywhere in the
32. FRONTIER DEFENDERS
The pond died
when the deep creek that supplied
its water was dammed to fuel
power tools dad kept inside.
That small pool,
our kingdom, the dirty jewel
over which we fought fake wars,
fortified shores, after school.
On all fours,
we creep by night, saboteurs,
smash the valves, dig through the weir,
disappear, the vengeance corps.
In the mere
we toss dad's tools and we cheer
for the moment satisfied
dancing beside our frontier.
Copyright 2004: J. Eric Smith.
Git Along on Home