I am a communist. Mama comes as ghosts sweep the house with Fentanyl dust bunnies. I have worked with children with autism, psychiatric treatment, Safe House, community college teacher, Community Mental Health, editor, high school faculty, inclusion videographer, Chairperson: Office of Young Children, Health Department, Children’s Rights Group, under Ford Foundation Grant. Artist. Photographer: Currently wondering if this is what it takes to put someone’s dick in you mouth, but this time, he pays for it. It is a one ticket to runway Delta #583. With stops in Paris and Algeria. Drug runs. There is a before rape. There was the rape itself. And now there is living a chaos, where this white dust lands on even the insides of your pouty mouths, cigarette. They were curious about you at Drummer. I still have a thing about MACH. That was the publication to put together great stuff. No advertising. Are you kidding me. I had to memorize or whatthefuck ever I have amnesia. Don’t kill me. I will give you whatever you want. Here, take the whole wallet. We will all suck you. One dick at a time. Win. Win. I eat pizza at the Pizza Ago Go. With coffee at three in the morning in the back of the cab I am being yelled at in. Oh, fuck off. I gave him some pizza pies so he would shut the fuck up.

I gave the trick that night the death of a lifetime. He had no reason to live. Black paper bags on the shag. You have not stayed in your cages. It was time for many of you who have to go. To go. To go wherever all the voices live, and it’s so difficult to let them. I said out. Leave me alone I am eating pizza. 

I know all about rape. Even clergy rape. Why are boys ignored. Many have joined the women but this one shovels entire mountains. Boys, are never on anyones radar. Sometimes an urban clinic far from here. Oh, abortion. High Religious Baptist in a Baptist Lord of the Parking Lots with corn dogs and a gut so fat, you could ski on it. I know where I live. But I am definitely not related to any of these carnies from Alabama. Full throttle, ho. Bubba, slide back in the hell if you want. Hell will do. Just make sure you go down to the spider one. Let loose. Parking lots for the Baptist all of us simpletons withering survivability in the Blue Ridge. Appalachia is still here. Rusted. Hulk. It was so hard to survive, every morning when you got up and off the mattress fuck. Fucking Jesus in the course of this battering of a life under siege, all the usual, I went to the library. I looked a lot of stuff up. Every bone in my cock. Drafts from a cheap motel. Flaunt has published my photographs. I do not do adolescents. Much. I am more moving to my book, My Appalachia. Just photography. They need more protection than anything else you can hang a psychiatric heat on. As a published photographer, chews gum, walks, rides dirt bikes. I still work with guys, and the lot of us know how it operates. What we know is that we are the devil of time. There can only be one in the same body. The voices are suspicious of everything. Kill them. Soot them. Sometimes I do, and then I take the money. It’s about the money. Oh, there’s some perks in there somewhere and I want them. They’re about the money. You found the gin joint. And we all know what a joint is. Downtown they will slip you You Name It, Shame, you’re not able to remember much but we found you out by the cement factory. It’s kinda bloody. Let’s find the ER. Not again.

We know when people kill themselves. We knew it before it happened. Soon, the crops come in on the same Jefferson Davis train rare as wolves cranks in, like a dead dog in the August heat. Mint Juleps out on the veranda. More likely beer. Southern Comfort is an acquired taste I sure as shit do not know how those old boys do in dirty dirties their boots still on. The barn stunk like a gymnasium. In those days, sex work was about half a block and the car pulls up. There was a list we all tore up. We had to. Memorize. Prices and personnel. And then there’s sex work. Baby, a lot of roads would be waiting for you, stop. Will stop you cold. Visitors arrive. They are not the kind of men who are unarmed. He is called the boatman and he requires that gold that vanished, a kid in his stuckness looking down at the ground and bite the lips. He is destroyed. He knows that. But No One Else had to know. There will never be a going back. You move toward him. He moves away, It’s intimidated eyes in the back of your cat eyes you know the names of all the feline wolves. We called the fiesty one, Plato. God bless every one. This street is my house. Under the blanket, it’s gin. No one is going to dare anything out of you. Stuff only you could tell. But why. Kids have the worst of stigma to chew on. They wanted to melt into the ground. We had always known. Some kids in that high school slammed day and night. They had never just gone for a trip to the mall. They want what they wanted and patients had the right to drugs are you out of your fucking mind. Get a grip. They can get rid of you Because They Want You.

Eventually, when the kid feels safe. Before the rape. Raped at work. Being raped. Cell. What else can a partial participation card that says: Raped. “They won’t bust me, will they.” I am asked this 600 times a day. “They probably will put you into county detention, and there is a nightmare card just waiting for your name to be called. Have you ever seen a crotch of a teenage butt turn a wet red when the testicles bust. Who will tell you only what I hear about. Forest fires to Covid. Whole thing shut bang. Down here, folks who rode dirt bikes were sacred. We fetched food. The slave cabins are all still here. One is a guesthouse way in the back. Boys rape the younger boys. The older boys fight back, but by now the older boys have shanks and knives. Whoever they pick out from the minions are raped. Stop shaking. You will go somewhere you can meet the voices. Men with HIV down here are shunned. They drive to a big city. Far away. Open the window. To sit outside on my friend’s fire escape to know I am still alive. I have been reading NYT since 1964. I am still living at least close to a hateful, hick, prejudiced little village in what I call White People Town.

There are African-Americans who live here. The life where slave cabins still exist. Those cramped cabins are instantly visualized because they are so small. No bigger than one small room. There are still places you can tie your horse up. Run, horses, run. Runaway slaves were whipped at the train station. Where the Confederate train ran through carrying the economic treasure’s of the South. Diamonds mainly. Gold. All vanished. No one knows where. But me. It was a time of extraordinary confusion. My own hick-writer investigation leads me to conclude that the economic engine that kept the South alive, never made it to the train. What people lugged aboard the train, filled with VIP folks like Jefferson Davis and family, was hot air.

The South is always a bunch of hot air. Loved Trump. The Confederate train was intercepted by the Union Army. No diamonds. No gold. I would write about poverty. Church mice. No one read me then. No one reads me now. They would deny it, but NYT has no journalist whose beat would be poverty itself. Economists, academics, data divers, high rollers, but poverty is so filled with stigma, no one at the NYT will so mush as discuss a journalist who is poor today. We do not have a voice. We are not allowed to tell the story of it, sex for the sake of sex, an old town torn and the agony of petulance. Not who grew up poor. But someone who IS poor. Likely to stay that way. The diamonds have left the building. Democracy be damned. Life in the hollows. You watch some life go bye as you pressed your nose up onto the windshield of the car abandoned in the back.

I gave the trick that night the death of a lifetime. He had no reason to live. Black paper bags on the shag. You have not stayed in your cages. It was time for many of you who have to go. To go. To go wherever all the voices live, and it’s so difficult to let them. I said out. Leave me alone I am eating pizza.

 Much. I am more moving to my book, My Appalachia. Just photography. They need more protection than anything else you can hang a psychiatric heat on. As a published photographer, chews gum, walks, rides dirt bikes. I still work with guys, and the lot of us know how it operates. What we know is that we are the devil of time. There can only be one in the same body. The voices are suspicious of everything. Kill them. Soot them. Sometimes I do, and then I take the money. It’s about the money. Oh, there’s some perks in there somewhere and I want them. They’re about the money. You found the gin joint. And we all know what a joint is. Downtown they will slip you You Name It, Shame, you’re not able to remember much but we found you out by the cement factory. It’s kinda bloody. Let’s find the ER. Not again.

We know when people kill themselves. We knew it before it happened. Soon, the crops come in on the same Jefferson Davis train rare as wolves cranks in, like a dead dog in the August heat. Mint Juleps out on the veranda. More likely beer. Southern Comfort is an acquired taste I sure as shit do not know how those old boys do in dirty dirties their boots still on. The barn stunk like a gymnasium. In those days, sex work was about half a block and the car pulls up. There was a list we all tore up. We had to. Memorize. Prices and personnel. And then there’s sex work. Baby, a lot of roads would be waiting for you, stop. Will stop you cold. Visitors arrive. They are not the kind of men who are unarmed. He is called the boatman and he requires that gold that vanished, a kid in his stuckness looking down at the ground and bite the lips. He is destroyed. He knows that. But No One Else had to know. There will never be a going back. You move toward him. He moves away, It’s intimidated eyes in the back of your cat eyes you know the names of all the feline wolves. We called the fiesty one, Plato. God bless every one. This street is my house. Under the blanket, it’s gin. No one is going to dare anything out of you. Stuff only you could tell. But why. Kids have the worst of stigma to chew on. They wanted to melt into the ground. We had always known. Some kids in that high school slammed day and night. They had never just gone for a trip to the mall. They want what they wanted and patients had the right to drugs are you out of your fucking mind. Get a grip. They can get rid of you because they want you.

Eventually, when the kid feels safe. Before the rape. Raped at work. Being raped. Cell. What else can a partial participation card that says: Raped. “They won’t bust me, will they.” I am asked this 600 times a day. “They probably will put you into county detention, and there is a nightmare card just waiting for your name to be called. Have you ever seen a crotch of a teenage butt turn a wet red when the testicles bust. Who will tell you only what I hear about. Forest fires to Covid. Whole thing shut bang. Down here, folks who rode dirt bikes were sacred. We fetched food. The slave cabins are all still here. One is a guesthouse way in the back. Boys rape the younger boys. The older boys fight back, but by now the older boys have shanks and knives. Whoever they pick out from the minions are raped. Stop shaking. You will go somewhere you can meet the voices. Men with HIV down here are shunned. They drive to a big city. Far away. Open the window. To sit outside on my friend’s fire escape to know I am still alive. Reading NYT since 1964. I am still living at least close to a hateful, hick, prejudiced little village in what I call White People Town. There are African-Americans who live here. The life where slave cabins still exist. Those cramped cabins are instantly visualized because they are so small. No bigger than one small room. There are still places you can tie your horse up. Run, horses, run. Runaway slaves were whipped at the train station. Where the Confederate train ran through carrying the economic treasure’s of the South. Diamonds mainly. Gold. All vanished. No one knows where. But me. It was a time of extraordinary confusion. My own hick-writer investigation leads me to conclude that the economic engine that kept the South alive, never made it to the train. What people lugged aboard the train, filled with VIP folks like Jefferson Davis and family, was hot air. The South is always a bunch of hot air. Loved Trump. The Confederate train was intercepted by the Union Army. No diamonds. No gold. I would write about poverty. Church mice. No one read me then. No one reads me now. They would deny it, but NYT has no journalist whose beat would be poverty itself. Economists, academics, data divers, high rollers, but poverty is so filled with stigma, no one at the NYT will so mush as discuss a journalist who is poor today. Not who grew up poor. But someone who IS poor. Likely to stay that way. The diamonds have left the building. Democracy be damned.