July 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Four
Jason Floyd Williams
career choices.

"Perhaps some of us have to go through dark and devious
ways before we can find the river of Peace or the high road
to the soul's destination."  Dreams and Personality. Pierce.

for my father.


There were truckloads.
Sanford & Son old Ford pick-up
truckloads of broken, brown
The kids waitin’ for the bus
might have thought he
was delivering shale-rock
to the History museum.

Towards the end,
he had 46 Miller Lites sharin’
his day–
each one a comforting blurb,
a separate toast to a
separate cause:
2 cases sittin’ shotgun,
like a chubby toddler, his
arm tenderly ‘round them;
teenage son ridin’ lonesome
in the backseat.

He took the boy out
a few times–
Mainly to a dive bar called
Flamingos, where
father & son would sit w/
ragged others like
awkward musical-notes along
the bar counter.
Picture all those cowboy bars
that Eastwood would walk

into & gather 20
dirty looks; Star Wars’
Mos Eisley cantina w/out
the rogue aliens.
Yeah, like that.
All the Hell’s Angels had
menstrual blood under their
fingernails &
someone else’s flesh
on their skull rings.

And Dancers.
And Dancers.
The Dancers were flies.
They were bent on
bikers & drugs
not just blood &
implantation of eggs.

The truckloads kept coming out
of this hidden driveway, as
if it were a Union construction site
or a recently established
Frat house.

A busy ant, this guy.


What changed everything was
when his 75 Cadillac-boat
Chubby Checkered a 180, hopin’
to upstage Camus, sped 60+mph, backwards,
towards an innocent family, a church family,
that had to swerve to
avoid a night collision w/
2 Red Demon Eyes.


His wife was gone.
His kids, too.
The Caddie destroyed.
The Dancers found others.
The woman that busted-up
the marriage wasn't there.

He got the house back, though.

And it was full of fleas.


A dozen. A hundred.
A hundred dozen fleas
They were left by his
ex’s dogs, a couple
German Sheperds that
behaved like poor losers
from the Big Pedigree Show, after
the divorce: attacking
each other; shitting on everything;
and chewing off their
flea collars.


This Rasputin lost in Northeastern
Ohio's biker-community, now here–
on this geometric slate floor– fish-flopping
in front of a 10 inch B&W tv tossin’
static snowstorms silhouettes onto
this Circus contortion of a man, this
helpless newborn mole in an
Underground home, a human
being pilfered for Real Estate
where fleas can raise
their families;
build their malls.


He de-toxed himself.
A 2 decade career sweated out
over a week of
nightmares involving
disembowelment, snakes, fleas.
When he was ready
to give-up, he asked
Christ for help.
Just to sleep w/out
the nightmares.
Caravaggio should’ve painted
this Conversion.


13 sober years later–
He tells me about
a recent A.A. lead he heard
w/ some fella who
trashed his vehicle
in a Convenient Mart
parking lot to
avoid hitting a
pink elephant crossing
the road.
RETURN to July 2005