Poetry and Fiction

Summertime Blues

To Eddie Cochran (1938-60)

“Yes folks it’ll be beautiful blue skies for the next few days. Great weather. Not much moisture, though. Time to get those ski boats And head to the lake, amiright?”

Who is this choad, this poon? This glad-hander, arm-twister, this naked persuader, This Gormless Evangelist for closing ones’ eyes in the face of disaster?

That’s no Armani he’s got on, the station couldn’t afford THAT. No. More like one of those Buy One Get Six from the guy who built the clothing empire, Smoking big fat spliefs every day of his working life, or so he claimed on TV.

Laughing as he was defenestrated.

No, the weather man is just a liar, a man who tells lies about the weather to the credulous, who would rather have us believe his TV eyes, his brows, his stinking pits and junk, the funk of his peritoneum, and the smell of the crevasse of flesh right between his balls and the inside of his thighs, back around to his glorious butthole, across which passed the shower water that poured from his crack like a waterfall straight down a drain and into the sewer this very morning. Who at the moment he uttered his weather lie, still smelled like the bath he copped from the last Hotel he stayed in. Before getting up and going to Work today, he is smelling like Rose Water, no matter the Temperature.

Maybe he’s going out to the lake in his Ski-Boat, Later. And

and he wants us to believe his Deceit Over Our Own Eyes? Over our Sticky Stinky skin? Our sweaty crotches, telling us it’s really just ugly hot? Slack-jawed and eyes wide open hot. Nasty-cheap-guitar-through-60’s-fuzz-box-hot. Over the shock-of-Bare-Feet-on-Concrete-Pavement-Hot? With a patch of very mature West Texas stickers deadly smack where you are going to jump after you responded to the epidermis burning off the soles of your feet, rupturing your fragile child sang froid.

At least it felt that damn way

Feeling it now, now, thinking back, and when you land on those little bastards, and I mean bastards, you cannot reconcile a belief in God with their existence when the sensation goes into your feet like the jet of an arc welder burning in a way Torquemada would envy. And as you dig in, as if to jump away, you succeed in grinding those small spheres of needles deeper into your nerve endings and pain doubles or trebles as the Top of Your Head Flies Right Off. The only thing is to Fall Right Over, sideways, and howl for the ages, from your womb and all wombs.

That is it. Precisely.

You would believe his necrotic lies Over the-Hot Keening-Whining 8- and 12-Year-Old-Sunburned-Kids-With-Nothing But a Garden Hose-And-a-Five-Dollar-Sprinkler-in-the-Backyard? Over fishing the Beer Cans from the lake water at the bottom of the Boat-Type-Hot, trying to find one that was still mildly cold, laughing raggedly, in delirious-beer-drunk incipient hypothermia? Over Really Wanting to Leave These Idiotic People and get home and out of the heat type-hot? Over the sick memory of sunburn so crappy Mama put you in icy bathtub and mentholatum for a couple days. You had a hundred one damn fever for chrissake. And

and This is not a Blue Sky.

Blue is lustrous, and deep. Always receding into infinite blackness. This is old wall paper, over-hued with brown, peeling. Suffused with humid greyness and ozone, colorless, odorless, even though its…We know it’s there.  We go into it, start sweating that won’t stop, trapped under a continent-spanning dome of high pressure under which the air mills and jostles, sulfureting, carbonating, and fumulating. Churning, heating and moaning. Every month or so it vouchsafes a constipated raindrop or two, taunting, insufferable. And

and Better in October, maybe.

That’s When I always Think of Fall arriving, Mine and my Dad’s Birthdays, and you go out and sit on the backyard deck without feeling like fair skin on a griddle. Ultimate Suburban living in early post-America, the new kind of savagery. It’s what you do on the Baja Oklahoma frontier, when you got the Summertime Blues, in the second decade of Jesus’s 21st Centenary: retreat into Air Conditioning, get “house on lake.” And

Dip Yourself in a vat of SPF 70, like a sheep, and

And power-boat and water ski around in runoff-poisoned -sewers-posing as-lakes, for whole weekends; I am referring to Every One Of the Streams and Rivers in Texas wider than a six-year old boy could piss across now backed up into Army Corps of Engineers lakes. Nary a one formed from what you would call a geophysical event or process. Neither glacier, volcano, rift, fault, earthquake, subduction event, nor meteor strike. They say, instead,

from a human-made log-jam way up the Arkansas in 1863.

Every other by bulldozer or mammoth earth-mover, commemorating many less-than-ordinary second-rate first-rate people for which these bodies of water are named, and henceforth will be, forever and ever. And all.

Bill Luker Jr                                   Denton TX USA                             July 14, 2018