Back At The Barn
There is a barn without paint chips.
A pitchfork stands in the corner inside and hay on the ground. Smells of animal piss from way before, as sunlight filters through the wood cracks. Spirits and splinters with termites, no signs of daisies or varnish.
Back at the barn, the salesman’s hairless head has a green mark from temper. Flaring nostrils and stained teeth, short soggy cigar, leather suitcase and small boxes of bland merchandise. He empties the trunk every night to take inventory of the ceramic dolphins.
He is a traveler on the road, back at the barn. He swindles promises from his attitude.
Last week in a roadside dinner, caked urine, splattered and viruses heaved from his stomach toward the toilet with Easter ointment and slimy yokes gluing tongues.
To this day, particles in his teeth and crevices fill with crap. He continued, though. Continued to finish his buttermilk that morning.
Back at the barn, he turned and asked his daughter if the green spot on his head was getting darker. He now shares his sweat against her ivory white ear.
She chews her fingernails and skin to the edges. Nervousness is her king.
Back at the barn, he rubs his eyes and returns. Clinging to the rafters from above, he returns to before. He remembers awhile back, in the shower stall kissing fungus while his wife hesitated from smearing shaving cream on his scabs. She now knows his misbehaving.
Back at the barn, he begs for forgiveness but she only smiles and spoons oatmeal and sugar. The mark on his head is now a protruding lump. He spots his wife serving breakfast down below. He holds a box of ceramics over the edge and aims for his wife’s head. His fingers slip and the box falls.
It hits the ground crashing and shattering onto her head. Hotels of Paris and no air conditioners with dusty oak furniture is the last time she was viewed with respect.
On a sales pitch toward unsure, uneasy, and disturbed people, the salesman is not back at the barn, while back of the barn.
Back at the barn, shirtless and greasy, he rolls around on the ground. Raw chicken in flour and hay needles prick at this skin. Then he hears her yell his name, cursing through her smoke filled responses. Mother-cluttered bourbon voice drops on her breast: lick it boy. He reaches up beneath her skirt, her apron and grabs her knee. Nasty wetness and dirty spots anchor his hand. Every button undone is a prayer. Every button undone shows more excitement. She heals herself onto her son’s hairy chest. Ice pick in hand, she runs it onto his bellybutton while seducing his naked body.
Back at the barn, he dresses himself and collects his scattered ceramics. He places his boxes into the trunk of his car and turns toward the barn. Still needs painting and grass cutting, washing, medicine taking and hallucination halting, the salesman wreaks and the barn needs attention.
Voices of the farm rooster is not the final insult, please defend yourself. We are not like most of us, back at the barn.
A pitchfork stands in the corner inside and hay on the ground. Smells of animal piss from way before, as sunlight filters through the wood cracks. Spirits and splinters with termites, no signs of daisies or varnish.
Back at the barn, the salesman’s hairless head has a green mark from temper. Flaring nostrils and stained teeth, short soggy cigar, leather suitcase and small boxes of bland merchandise. He empties the trunk every night to take inventory of the ceramic dolphins.
He is a traveler on the road, back at the barn. He swindles promises from his attitude.
Last week in a roadside dinner, caked urine, splattered and viruses heaved from his stomach toward the toilet with Easter ointment and slimy yokes gluing tongues.
To this day, particles in his teeth and crevices fill with crap. He continued, though. Continued to finish his buttermilk that morning.
Back at the barn, he turned and asked his daughter if the green spot on his head was getting darker. He now shares his sweat against her ivory white ear.
She chews her fingernails and skin to the edges. Nervousness is her king.
Back at the barn, he rubs his eyes and returns. Clinging to the rafters from above, he returns to before. He remembers awhile back, in the shower stall kissing fungus while his wife hesitated from smearing shaving cream on his scabs. She now knows his misbehaving.
Back at the barn, he begs for forgiveness but she only smiles and spoons oatmeal and sugar. The mark on his head is now a protruding lump. He spots his wife serving breakfast down below. He holds a box of ceramics over the edge and aims for his wife’s head. His fingers slip and the box falls.
It hits the ground crashing and shattering onto her head. Hotels of Paris and no air conditioners with dusty oak furniture is the last time she was viewed with respect.
On a sales pitch toward unsure, uneasy, and disturbed people, the salesman is not back at the barn, while back of the barn.
Back at the barn, shirtless and greasy, he rolls around on the ground. Raw chicken in flour and hay needles prick at this skin. Then he hears her yell his name, cursing through her smoke filled responses. Mother-cluttered bourbon voice drops on her breast: lick it boy. He reaches up beneath her skirt, her apron and grabs her knee. Nasty wetness and dirty spots anchor his hand. Every button undone is a prayer. Every button undone shows more excitement. She heals herself onto her son’s hairy chest. Ice pick in hand, she runs it onto his bellybutton while seducing his naked body.
Back at the barn, he dresses himself and collects his scattered ceramics. He places his boxes into the trunk of his car and turns toward the barn. Still needs painting and grass cutting, washing, medicine taking and hallucination halting, the salesman wreaks and the barn needs attention.
Voices of the farm rooster is not the final insult, please defend yourself. We are not like most of us, back at the barn.
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