the poems of george jones
...generation sucks


low class, middle-class handjob

the singer, draped in black,
a face aged
with jazz
and circumstance,
and that big belt-buckle
round
as an egg,
didn’t look too good.
then again, neither
did i.
my clothes were nice enough—
shirt tucked in, clean slacks—
but my shoes and neatly combed hair
had flecks of white paint, the
stains of labor.
and the guitarist
had us beat, clad like
some yuppie pirate,
playing along,
just not
as well as the rest.

I only mention it really
because
the bass player, the
male version
of the singer (minus
the belt)
had these
amazing hands
of aerobatic sausages,
working
his stand-up.
plunk plunk, thwack—
echoing out
over everybody else
there.
on top of the wine,
white as the paint
on my shoes, in my hair,
it was 15 bucks well
spent.


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Last updated on
Monday December 25, 2006