I told you his southern legitimacy statement was incredible. Read on:

I know how to hunt, fish, and how to dress and cook the larder obtained from same. I’ve eaten possum on more than one occasion, but they’re too damned much trouble to cook and in these days in which rabbit boxes are nonexistent and a “cleaning out cage” is a thing of the past, it makes it all the more difficult. I call sand fiddlers “sand fleas” and know that the ones with the soft shells are the best bait for sea mullets just as peanut butter is the best bait for mice and apples are the best bait for rabbits.

I know there is a difference between writing and storytelling and believe I’m adequate at the latter. I can’t think of a single fried food that tastes better cooked with oil as opposed to lard. I can’t imagine owning a dog that had no utilitarian purpose. I know that sanitation ratings have no bearing on the quality of food served. I know the difference between a restaurant, an “eating place,” and a dining establishment. I don’t stand in line to eat breakfast at 10 a.m. It’s damned near lunchtime for me by then.

I drive a four-door, gas guzzling, pickup truck and have absolutely no practical need for it. Just wanted one. I wear a baseball cap at least 330 days a year and khaki workpants every day except on occasion when I don my overalls. I frequently “cup” my cigarettes even when not in the wind. I can light one with a match in a hurricane. I know that the proper term for country ham gravy is “red gravy” as opposed to “redeye,” which was a term that originated many years ago from a comic strip done by a Yankee.

And now some poetry from our dear friend. His poetry is as delicious as his SLS.

Chicago

“So your brother’s bound and gagged and they’ve chained him to a chair.”
Graham Nash

It’ll start in the early morning.
Coffee with the old men,
everyone on Social Security, but me.
Highly audible references
in regard to “having sex,”
which, of course, none of them have recently.

Back home after a dozen smokes
and 60 oz. of java.
To the screen for the daily search,
newspapers, boards, and boreds.
Maybe a hand or two of poker
just to verify that my luck’s still shit.

Word is you can’t take lighters
on planes these days.
What the fuck will I do?
Walk in the singular smoking area
and rub two sticks together?
Yeah, Homeland Security, my ass!
We have met the conspiracy
and it is us.

Flight departs 1:35 Thanksgiving Day.
Will it be turkey with all the trimmings?
Soup and a sandwich, perhaps?
Pecan pancakes cooked all day
at some interstate trap?
Why not just have it my way
at you know where?

Plane arrives 2:46 at O’Hare.
“Hey, buddy! You gotta match?”
Two miles later, I’m waiting for my suitcase.
I don’t do “luggage.”
After a smokeless eternity,
that thing I bought at J.R.’s Cigarette Outlet
comes conveying by.

Finally outside
freezing my ass off
and catching up on nicotine.
A cab screeches,
driven by some terrorist, of course,
and I wait to get fucked on the tab.
He hears me speak
and the only thing I can dissect
from his gibberish
is the constant mention of “Andy Griffith.”

Later, after settling in the hotel,
the friends come and the discussion ensues.
“Oh, there’s this really neat Hungarian restaurant.”
Yeah, right.
Just what I need.
A menu full of shit I can’t pronounce
and a bunch of walking around fiddle players
worrying the crap outta me.

Two hours behind in my drinking
and perishing to death,
“What can we show him next?’
Hmmmmmmmm . . .
“Hey, folks. Why not the fucking bar
at the hotel?”
And so it goes.
And so it goes.

The things we do for love.

Lunch

Pulling into the restaurant parking lot,
11:20 a.m. on a Friday morning;
Inside the senior citizens sit at tables
mostly in pairs
but occasionally with adult children
and maybe grandkids.
I know they dine early
because they can’t sleep.
They’ve been up since the sun
and often before
silently drinking coffee
and watching the morning news.
A piece of toast or a bran muffin
consumed out of habit.
Like me, they wish to get in and out.
The noon-time traffic can be confusing
when your dexterity
has been impaired by time
and your thoughts are seldom in the present.
The rush of the working people
is too much of a challenge
as the busboys break in the buffet line
to replenish the quickly vanishing morsels.
I scarf and try to ignore
the vision of my future self
sitting alone at some point
with no goal in mind
other than making the day
and the inevitable nap.
A two dollar tip,
a visit to the checkout,
and it’s on to whatever my world is.
Stepping into the brightness
and lighting a smoke,
I notice a thirty-something man
pull up in a late model Chevy.
A woman in a parked car
gets out and locks her door.
She eases in beside him,
her lips not moving.
I can imagine her
fondly touching his leg.
I can imagine
a Holiday Inn in another town.