CHARMING
Like the snake that uncoils at the
sound of its flute, I awake from my
profusion of wrongs. I slowly rise,
myself enraptured by some secret
songs. Men have whittled both
grape and ash wood into better
shapes than this, but here I am.
-
People there are who charm ghosts
and invite them in. Who tell stories
and fashion tales. My first remembrance
of anything like that is from the old
high country where I once lived. Genial
guys, rugged and strong, wise old
farmers - they'd sit around, some
Winter nights - an old fire at the
base of some old barn, a slab of
concrete at its social end. There'd
be a tub there too, of fermented apple
cider, apple jack or whatever they
called it, from October. It was wicked,
at 4 months old.
-
They invited me in, and I become soon
a regular to them : stories of hunts, and
adventures past, bawdy tales of women
they'd known - and some still around.
Half fire, half fiction, and facts of renown:
Harold Korndyke's enormous wang, how
Helen Manger gasped one night in secret,
she though, but everyone in the other room
had heard. That dead deer in Arneson's truck,
how it came back to life two hours later
and fought them like hell, until three Bowie
knife cuts killed it again.
-
Believe me, ladies and gents, it wasn't all pleasant.
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