Ed Markowski: Becky's Tree Swing

My Name Is Chuck by Ed Markowski

And I live on a dead end street and I ain’t no dead beat and I ain’t no alcoholic

in any way shape or form just because I’m the last man out of the White Water

Lounge seven out of every seven days I’m a big league all star up front laying it

all down on the table no excuses all world rum dipped wrong fielder who would

drink Mickey Muscatel Grover Cleveland Brandy Alexander Hack Daniels and the

Sultan Of Schnapps way under the water table if all three of them boys rose up

and out of their graves in the prime of their careers . . .
 

And I always ride with two quarts of Listerine under the front seat just in case

I break down in the eternally dry hell of a Bible Belt panorama . . .

 

And I’ve never laid the blame for my lethal love on the weather or a woman 

or my father or a rough night at the Rouge Plant or at the cloven feet of the

low priest who bought and blessed my first bottle of God at the Stardust Party

Store on the sordid side of mind where every second is rush hour and Abstinence

Avenue flows into The Addiction Expressway . . .

 

And I drink because I love buying pretty glass bottles and I love the Autumn

Amber shade of bourbon and I love the Jamaican Patois of Sea Wind Rum and

I love the sweet nothingness of impure Everclear . . .

And I love the Russian Seduction of Stoly under summer stars and I love to

watch the hell bound ascension of High Life bubbles in my Superman Glass

and I love Queen Angevin’s cheap Chablis more than I love Queen Angevin

in room number none at the Alsace Motel when she laps it off all over me . . .

 

And I love the Zen simplicity of Sake and I love the burn of my sun rise

shot before breakfast as it corrodes and bores more holes through my buckshot

stomach lining and I love the solemn shroud of Scotch that slams the door

that keeps me hidden from lovers fools friends clowns strangers neighbors freaks

pitchmen barkers and myself and I love the romance language and alley etiquette

of my patron saint Amigo Tequila . . .

And I do love each and every Seven Crown Slut Havana Club Whore and Dixie

Belle Doll who shared a bottle in my bed fucked me left at noon and never

came back because they knew they couldn’t hold a swizzle stick to my true

love that nameless bitch who lives in every bottle on every bar from Alaska to

Zaire and from Absinthe to Zinfandel . . .

 
And I have no regrets or amends to make because from my fractured angle if 

a soul ain’t a drunk or dope dog by the time candle number twenty – five 

melts into the Kahlua Cake then that nobody hasn’t lived has it all wrong is

wasting the gift you’ve so tragically given and needs to make an appointment

with your post modern version of a wise man and the Geek God Of Groveling

Doctor Phil . . .

 
And every one says God God’s got a reason for every one and for every season

and it just hit me like a dust mote . . .

 
That I am the Matinee Idol Poster Boy and undeniably the best evidence that

the grand experiment you devised and titled Mankind has failed completely So

Bobby mix the Master here your best ten – billion megaton martini to ease the

burden of his twenty trillion megaton fuck up and put it on my tab. 

 

Denominations by Ed Markowski

Me and Laurie was watching the Rockford Files and getting ready to watch

Wheel Of Fortune in room number nine at the Pelican Motel down in Biloxi,

Mississippi when we decided we was gonna shack, snack, and suckle legit

in the eyes and shackles of society, our families, and the Invisible Man up

where ? I cut the TV. Laurie blood hounds the Yellow Pages. I shaved. She

shouted, “ I found the place Wild Bill, so slap on some skin bracer, and

strap your ass in the saddle. “

We drives up highway forty – nine and stops at the Paramount Mission

Baptist Church in a no horse dust drop named Wiggins, population seven

hundred and twelve counting me, Laurie, and one on the way any day now

as the grand finale of that night last May when me and she was howling

in the galley of Bee Landry’s shrimp boat down in Happy Jack, Louisiana.

So, Laurie and me sits down with this hard shell Baptist preacher, and we

tells him we’s traveling down the right route these days. We tells him too,

that the right road started in the Yellow Pages and ended at the plywood

door of his church. We tells him that we no doubt is gonna ride that road,

surf that wave, and fly that sky across every cloud and seam of blue, till

we reaches the sanctified shores of that sun lit nation called Holy Matrimony

right here, right now, if you’ll marry us Mister Minister.

The hard sell Baptist looks us over, scribbles something on a desk calendar,

and says, “ Three – hundred dollars, and that includes a bouquet of beautiful

Snapdragons for the bride, and a boutonniere of Tiger Lilies for the groom

fresh from our congregation’s Glory Garden. Our organist’s fifty – five dollar

fee is also included. Fifty – five dollars might sound steep, but one night way

back and long before she was saved, our Miss Sally Duncan played piano at

Spooks Roadhouse in Jackson for the Troubadour from Tupelo when his regular

key man mixed the wrong pills with some sour mash. Well, there aren’t a whole

lot of us walking around who can tell our children, grandchildren, and great

grandchildren that a celebrity who played piano for the King of Kings, played

the organ at our weddings. Now, we must always walk with humility in the eyes

of our Lord, but the fact of the matter is, having Sally play automatically grants

you two at the very least, a lifetime of undeniable bragging rights that will never

be topped. Now, before we go to the Chapel, there’s one question you must

answer. If either of you answer incorrectly, you’ll both be free to continue living

in sin while reserving your eternal seats inside the pit at B. L. Zee bop's Original

Old South Bar-B-Que. “

Then, the hard shell Crabtist aims his long left index between my eyes. “ You

first, “ he says.

“ Deal the cards and pull the trigger Doctor Holliday. “

“ Do you believe in God? “

“ Kinda, Mister Minister. “

“ Kinda? What’s Kinda ? “

“ Kinda’s a type of intelligence that no man or woman can pin down. “

“ Go on.”

“ Educated people calls it an incomprehensible and nonsensical intelligence that

makes, moves, and removes galaxies, planets, mountains, men, mice, and microscopic

beings.”

“ Is that all you have to say about your Divine Father? “

“ Is that all ? I said too much. “

“ Too much ? “

“ I keep family secrets secret, Rev. “

Mister Minister sticks a fresh plug of Kodiak in his mouth. He looks me over again,

then he says, “ You’re on the road to hell son. “ So I says, “ Rev, I’ll be waiting for

you, and when you show Rev, the ale’s on my Anthony, the whiskey’s on my

Washington, and the hooch is on my Hamilton. “

The hard sell Zaptist points a black ink pen at Laurie. “ Are you prepared to marry

a man who you’ll be separated from for eternity ? Do you believe in God young lady,

or are you a member of the Kinda Congregation ? “

Laurie aims a tube of Cherry Burst lip gloss, and her cherry red lips at the Soul Bleacher.

“ I’m a member of the I don’t wanna know congregation, and I’m a member of the I don’t

give a shit congregation. But I’ll promise you this Mister Minister, when I prance into hell

I’ll ride you and Wild Bill for free for ever, and ever, and ever, and ever, forever amen. “

With two new splinters sprouting in his eyes, the Diamond Back Asptist says to us, “ Since

the beginning of time, everyone who shows up at my gate, and I mean everyone, forgets to

add the R in my name. No matter how hard I try, I can’t figure it out. I guess I’m not as all

knowing as everyone thinks I am . . .

So, please do me a small favor. After the ceremony, if you decide to pay the three – hundred
dollar fee with a check, please make it out to G O R D. “

HAM & EGGS & A SIDE OF . . . . . RITA? by Ed Markowski

I WAS THIRTY - TWO YEARS FROM HOME WHEN OUR EYES COLLIDED AT

DOC HOLOGRAM 'S GHOST COAST DINER ON LAKE SUPERIOR 'S SOUTH

SHORE I WINKED BACON SIZZLED SHE SMILED I BLINKED SHE BALANCED

I WOBBLED SHE SHIMMERED I SQUINTED SHE SHIMMERED I DROOLED

SHE VIBRATED I BUZZED SHE BOUNCED I ROSE & FELL ROSE & FELL

ROSE & FELL ROSE FELL & FOLLOWED SHE JUGGLED MY BROWN EYES

FOUR DENVER OMELETS FIVE FULL CUPS OF LUCY 'S LOVE POTION LATTE'

SIX DRIPPING CUSTARD STICKS GARY POWERS THE CARPENTER JACK JAMES

THE ELECTRICIAN DRUMSTICK DONNIE THE PLUMBER ESSA MAKI THE MAYOR

& TWO POWDER SUGAR COATED COPS BADGE NUMBERS 12354 & 41454

I WINKED AGAIN SHE LICKED HER LIPS THE SUNLIT PINK TIP OF HER TONGUE

WAVING GUIDING CHAINING & LOCKING ME TO THE RED DELICIOUS APPLE

SOFT RED WALLS OF HER VELVET VAULT COFFEE GEYSERS ERUPTED ON

EVERY TABLE AROUND THE ROOM TWO COKE GLASSES FELL OFF CARLITO

THE BUS BOY 'S OVER LOADED ALUMINUM TRAY SHATTERING AS ONE IN

AUDIBLE SOUND TWO PATS OF DIXIE BELLE BUTTER SLID SINKING INTO

A RAFT OF HASH BROWNS FIVE NAUTICAL SECONDS PAST THAT MISTER MIKE

MOON THE PHARMACIST TARGETED TRINA THE TELLER WITH HIS VERY BEST

VOODOO ZOMBIE XANAX GAZE TRINA THE TELLER BLEW A TABASCO &

TOBACCO SOAKED & SCENTED KISS TO CONNIE WILSON 'S KID BROTHER

DIAMOND EYE DUKE THE FASTEST BURGER FLIPPING ONION SLICING DEEP

FRIED DANDY SOUTH OF MARS AVENUE ACCORDING TO THE WORDS OF

DROP DEAD GORGEOUS MOLLY ANNE PICKET SWIVELING FIVE STOOLS WEST

OF TWO PERFECTLY COOKED FARM FRESH EGGS OOZING YOLK LAYING

SIDE BY SIDE & OVER INCREDIBLY EASY WITH THREE THICK SLICES OF

LEE 'S REBEL ROAR COUNTRY HAM & A SIDE OF DUST DRY RYE PLACED

BEFORE ME SIX HOURS & SIX & A HALF MINUTES BEFORE WE CALLED

ROOM SERVICE ORDERED EACH OTHER RAW RARE RAWER & RARER THEN

SEASONED LICKED BIT NIBBLED SUCKED SIPPED DEVOURED & DIGESTED EACH

OTHER IN ROOM TWENTY - TWO AT THE PAIR - A - DICE CASINO HOTEL ON

THE INSKIRTS OF HER OUTSKIRTS IN THE CENTER OF CHRISTMAS MICHIGAN

& I WOULDN 'T BET ON IT BUT I THINK MY WHITE HOT BLUE EYED SOUR

MASH SCENTED WIFE FOR A NIGHT ' S NAME WAS JUST GIMME A MINUTE

IT 'LL COME TO ME.