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Posts Tagged ‘Oklahoma’

The Country Lawyer Explains

In Arts & Letters, Creative Writing, Humanities, Poetry, Writing on May 6, 2015 at 8:45 am

Amy Susan Wilson

Amy Susan Wilson has published in numerous journals, including This Land, Southern Women’s Review, and elsewhere. Fetish and Other Stories, which focuses on Southern women, is forthcoming May 2015, Third Lung Press. She is Editor of Red Truck Review: A Journal of American Southern Literature and Culture and Publisher, Red Dirt Press. (www.redtruckreview.com). She publishes attorney Steven L. Parker’s debut novel, “BS,” release date of June 2015. 

“The Country Lawyer Explains”

Goat blood gushing
like Turner Falls
after a flood;
Rascal
your number one bird dog
settled into truck bed,
flip out the side
into that ravine,
fridges
sofas—
goats
thrown out back
the pull-trailer
Bethel Fork Road.
Seven necks
wishbone-easy
snap.
Ford 250 axle busted up
good as a boxer’s face.

Elmore charging outta his pen
as you chug the rut-red dirt
road—lying in wait he was–
Elmore
knowing to dart
just the right millisecond
to crash pancake-thin
Ford 250 and all,
Elmore’s
laugh-smirk-snort
the sure-fire sign
of a serial killer
you say.
Welp, Elmore enjoyed takin’ out
           meat goats,
           ole Rascal.
           Ya didn’t see him laugh;
           truck engine
           blazin’ Hades
           goat blood
           galore.

II.

Uncle Roy,
Aunt Wanella,
I don’t doubt
the Internet says
you can prosecute a pig
some parts the world
but not
Pottawatomie County,
Oklahoma.
Sure, blame our federal
government,
Obama,
But animals lack culpability.
I agree
smells like rain
come this hour.
Elmore’s gonna muck
in mud
sun his big fat
wad of belly,
his favorite
slaughter hog-thing
beyond murdering meat goats,
God’s finest bird dog,
the injustice
of reward.

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Three Poems by Amy Susan Wilson

In Arts & Letters, Poetry, Southern Literature on June 5, 2013 at 8:45 am

Amy Susan Wilson has recently published in Southern Women’s Review, Fried Chicken and Coffee, Cybersoleil, Dead Mule, Crosstimbers, Red River Review, Red Dirt Review, The Literary Lawyer, and in other similar publications. Amy Susan’s poetry book,  Honk If You Love Billy Ray, is forthcoming from Dead Mule Press; she is the Founder and Publisher of Red Truck Review: A Forum for Southern Literature and Culture, forthcoming September 2013. She holds an MFA from Columbia University and lives in Shawnee, Oklahoma. She can be reached at www.facebook.com/redtruckreview.

Tater’s Small Engine Repair

Tate, known as Coot to all

him and Reverse, Pete for real

but Reverse cuz his Chevy 250

got no back-up.

Those boys

they get to guzzling

lemons squeezed into vodka

and what-not

Reverse says,

I seen floaters

            Red River.

            Bodies puffed as marshmallows,

            sorriest thing I’d seen.

 “Oh Hale,” Coot says.

             Motor Head here

            best  Negro magician

            on  a power warsher

            rider mower to boot.

Arguing till sunset

whether Motor Head

healed warsher

rider mower alike—

            Come Back 2-morrow  sign

winks purple-neon.

Coot, Reverse

agree on nothing

other than

one  floater

swells whole river

with sorrow.

PJ’s Liquor

My butt anchored

to Elvis-old

wooden stool,

            No Man is an island,

            Entire of itself;

My man Donne says

though no time

to guzzle poetry,

watermelon brandy

$11.73.

            Hey Big Blake Junior!

            How ya doing?

Egg-white sweat

beads the adam’s apple;

nose, forehead

pepper-red.

Just in from the Grandkids,”

Big Blake Jr. lies.

            Every man is a piece of the continent,

so I says,

Take it easy

            hear?”

Non-Milf

beige teeth,

pear-shaped rumpus,

heat seeks

missile-fast

Tecate,

aisle two

shelf three.

Her kid

hangs his

water slide long

tongue

out the passenger

window.

Lord and Gumby Stew–

some kinda new

birth defect?

This place:

Blue-gray

plywood barn

like my

Granpa Ramey’s

lawn mower shed

smack-dab the

Sinclair.

Dinosaur

winks green

as the hair that floats in

to ink up

on Buzz Jam

Whiskey Jel,

Black Licorice.

Yellow halter

butterfly left of nape.

Green Hair Gal

squeals like

she sees a mouse—

TV saying

three bodies

Boston Marathon.

            Any man’s death diminishes me,

            Because I am involved in mankind,

but news dude paid to say,

“Sports up next.”

This big tear

rains down

her left cheek,

four cents short.

Slut Butt Miller: A Barber’s Daughter 

Whale-O-Suds Tunnel Wash,

Jimmy Maloney unfastens

midnight-blue push-up

one hand.

White wife beater

daisy duke shorts

litter John Deere

floor mats

along with

Jack Daniels

Pall Mall pack.

Creamy mint frosting

soaps the Ford 150

as if a giant cupcake.

Turtle Wax

complimentary,

1:00 in the a.m.

Pink thong

unwraps

Jolly Rancher easy,

watermelon kind.

Whale-O-Suds

a done deal,

Slut Butt

squeals donuts alone

Shawnee Bowl.

Keystone glued

to cup holder,

Slut Butt

circles her Daddy’s

‘95 beige Impala

round and round

that empty lot,

swears to FM

and humidity

her Daddy visits

in a dream

that plays

like a movie,

Recall your tire swing

            Salt Fork Landing,

Red River?

                        Old tread

            roped to oak—

                        Just for you,

                        Baby-Girl.

Her Daddy

pushes

up

over

that muddy

Red River,

her Daddy

right now

just north

PJ’s Liquor

A-OK Pawn,

Pottawatomie Cemetery.

Asphalt and sky

pitch-black

as the inside

of a beer can,

the backseat

of some boy’s truck

waiting.

“The Glass Eye,” A Poem by Amy Susan Wilson

In Arts & Letters, Creative Writing, Creativity, Poetry, Writing on August 22, 2012 at 8:45 am

Amy Susan Wilson is a writer living in Shawnee, Oklahoma. She holds an M.F.A. from Columbia University and her work has appeared in the Southern Literary Review, Southern Women’s Review, Red River Review, and other journals.

The Glass Eye

Acting like you come

to pet my dog Bullet

No Sir Little Missy

you come to lookit

the quarter-sized hole

in my head

where my glass eye lives.

 

‘Jack in the Box Joe’

I call him.

Pops just like Jack

out of his tin box,

or dentures

From my mouth.

Hold out your hand

I’ll drop him to your palm

go on

he won’t bite.

 

Girl, slow your jabbering down.

Did Jack in the Box Joe

ever fall out my head

when he wasn’t supposed to?

 

Three springs back

Tornado Juanita

drove trucks, trailers

Big Lots!

ten counties over;

that wind a noodler’s arm

yanking Joe out my socket,

Joe a catfish

bunkered deep the nest

of my skull.

 

Campground Twelve,

Lake Shawnee,

Jack in the Box Joe plunked

Right smack that

memory foam posture pedic queen

lodged the top

an old oak.

 

Last June

International Youth Rodeo Finals,

lost my eyeball

Expo building.

 

Youth barrel racing

starting up–

old Joe roll behind a saddle stall,

a miracle that loudspeaker,

            Rodeo fans

            we got us one navy purse

            an eyeball turned in

            Anyone missing an eye

            Or lady’s purse

            Go left of Roy’s Funnel Cakes

            Right of Connie’s Chicken Gizzard Wagon;

            Again, anyone lost an eyeball

            Assert to Rodeo lost and found.

 

Jack in the Box Joe

plopped back in

that empty space

in my head

Joe all grateful,

sputters a little

            Thanks Man,

Joe going hippie

on me

sometimes.

 

Do I have to clean him

since he’s made of glass?

Windex, a paper towel

spit-shines Joe

clear as a prize blue marble

or show Corvette.

 

How did I get the nickname

“Eyeball-Satellite?”

Joe and me

we spot rain

good as a NASA satellite.

Rain, sleet twenty counties away,

the glass eye twitches.

 

If Jack in the Box Joe

knew stocks like he knows rain

I’d be rich  

as Wal-Mart clan,

Bentonville area.

 

Did you know Alice Walton

got herself a DUI

Christmas 2012?

Forth Worth ranch,

I-35.

Miss Alice

coulda splatted

like a water bug,

liquor a respecter

of no one.

 

Watch Little Miss Amy Susan;

My eye’s gonna twitch.

Rain our way come this hour.

Best to scoot on home

eat your Mama’s

corndog, okra supper.

 

Oh foo and poo

fiddle stickers to boot,

you think I could make this up?

Joe and me

got to feed Bullet his Purina

I mix with a little Swanson’s

scoot home girl–

beat the rain,

don’t forget

to count your blessings

for all you have.   

“Bottle Tree,” A Poem by Amy Susan Wilson

In Arts & Letters, Creative Writing, Humanities, Poetry, Writing on August 15, 2012 at 8:45 am

Amy Susan Wilson is a writer living in Shawnee, Oklahoma. She holds an M.F.A. from Columbia University and her work has appeared in the Southern Literary Review, Southern Women’s Review, Red River Review, and other journals.

Bottle Tree

My Nanna’s backyard elm

outfitted with blue, red

green glass bottles

tied with chicken wire the width

of a hen’s beak

to each branch.

 

            Scarin’ crows away,

Gram’s explained.

Wind chimes hung like gaudy ear bobs

from lobes of lower branches:

a lady bug with silver spoons,

that copper kettle adorned with

aqua beads, a faded red tin cup,

the kind hobos carry

while riding the rail.

 

Each sunset

those Blue Nun bottles

soft purple

like a mood ring

or Goddess moon from Jupiter.

          Mama back at Griffin,

I’d sigh,

run my palm

down the spine

of charcoal bark.

 

I never told Nanna,

kids at school

just Ruby-Lucille

me winning

a big red Escalade

Firelake Casino

someday I would—

 

Mama and me

we’d chomp green M&Ms

all the way to California,

big blue ice chest

the kind with wheels

loaded with biscuits

Pepsi, Paydays

strawberry ice cream bars galore.

 

Grams calls Griffin

          A  nerve hospital

           A mini-vacation from life.

 

Church ladies whisk

meatloaf

salisbury steak

Sunday afternoons,

          Grams too old to handle a child

          This stage of life

          All by herself.

 

Always,

Mrs. Harlan Dodge Simpson

presses a green bean casserole,

Old Testament

coloring book

to my palms

 

lambs, cows

slaughtered on an altar,

carnation red crayon

for blood

twelve pack Crayola.

           

Ruby Lucille always waits,

backyard,

those bottles

clink like diamond bracelets

TV stars load their arms with.

          “Well Lady Bug,

          A fine plan

          You and your Mama,

          Heading to L.A.

          Someday,”     

Ruby Lucille whispers

in her bottle tree language,

Ruby Lucille

never laughing

never  letting on.

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