Lessons In Genetics

I might be
a little bit of kin
to Marsh Williams.
He invented
the M1 Carbine
while in prison
after shooting
a deputy sheriff
who raided his still.

Maybe I’m related
to a female serial killer.
She was a prissy snot
in third grade who got
my mother in trouble
for eating red hots
in class, then grew up,
poisoned four husbands,
her own mother, and
had the unmitigated gall
to bring potato salad
to the Williams
annual family reunion.

Surely, I’m a relation
of the Carolina poet,
Fred Chappell.
Grandma was
a Chappell.
I write poetry.
That settles that.

Perhaps there are
a couple of
bloodthirsty pirates
spliced on my vine.

Lesson #1:
Don’t send the cops
to my house,
ever.

Lesson #2:
Don’t put me
on the list
to bring
a covered dish.

Lesson #3:
Don’t believe
a word
that I say.

Lesson #4:
There is
no escape.

**

They Called Him Cap’n Glass

He had a glass eye
as green as Carolina
hurricane waves,
long curly red hair
and a beard in braids.

He lived on a shrimp boat
with his woman du jour
tied beside the foam of tide
and a board loose dock.

He owned no clocks.
Ate what he wanted.
Pissed where he pleased.

If you were new
to the parties
on Crab Shack Road,
he’d take out his eye
and slip it in your drink.

Every teenager
in the county
drank Jack Daniels
laced with cool glass eye
at one time or another.

The Cap’n had seven
yard scarred kids he
saw some Saturdays.
He drank like a whale;
smoked Lucky Strikes
like they were going
out of style.
When I die, feed me
to the fish, he said.

But that sumbitch
could build a boat
that would make
a convict cry, he
could throw nets
like a ballerina,
gut a fish
slick as glass.
Crank a winch
or a wench with
music in his hands.

He had a PhD
in reading currents,
sun, wind, moon, salt.
When he hauled off
in the pink setting sky,
balanced on the edge
of his bow, it was sweet
poetry in motion.

The Cap’n died one night
when his nets were full.
A ruptured vessel
in his heart; we thought
it pissed him off
to lose such a good run.

They shaved him up like
he was going to court
for the funeral; put him
in a cheap box
and a suit and tie
that were way too tight.
He looked like he might
sit up any minute
and start telling
dirty jokes.

When the preacher
gave a eulogy about
an upright man
who was a pillar
of the community,
we looked around
to see who in the hell
he was talking about.

Then we all laughed
even the preacher,
and maybe even
the Cap’n, because
we know
he’s in heaven
with two beautiful eyes,
pulling nets
and chasing angels.