Snyder had a
scar
that ran
from the bottom
of his ear to
the bottom of his neck.
he had
white hair
and a white
beard
and
was drunk
more often than
not.
the
smartest
thing he was
known to say
was
when he told
little Billy Kramer
that
if he ever
got in a fight
in a bar
he ought to
back himself into a corner
so
no one
could hit him
from behind.
Snyder also
said
a journey was
no damn good
unless
you rode it to
the end.
last year
Snyder got
cancer
and rode his
journey to the end.
he was 83.
she looked
like
lightning
the moment it
flashed and lit
the world
and you and me
and everything else
on fire.
he wanted to
write
like
Hemingway,
but it came out
sounding like
bad Bukowski.
on
top of that,
he had nothing
real or new to
say,
but that didn’t
stop him
from saying it
again and again
and again.
he felt
haunted
and
hunted...
he didn’t know
which,
but,
it didn’t
really matter,
because
either way you
lose
and
the world
just ends up
swallowing you
and everything
around you
whole.
he did a
painting of that night,
mostly
in browns
and yellows
and orange and
green.
he finished it,
but,
no one
ever saw it
because he
threw it out,
along with
her picture and
a watch she
gave him
on Valentine’s
Day that was inscribed:
Mark and Pam: forever and beyond.
Jesus called
my
Margie home
late August of
’87
and
i been
alone ever
since,
but,
that don’t
mean i been
lonely.
no, sir.
a
man
what has
half a mind
got plenty to
do.
besides,
there’s old
Smokey-dog.
best
dog i ever had.
in
some ways
he’s even
better than Margie,
and
in some
ways he’s not.
when i was a
kid
and
couldn’t
read yet, i
used to
ask my sister
to read things to me
and
she was kind
and patient and
read everything
that i asked her to read:
cereal boxes,
labels on cans,
street signs,
billboards,
whatever there
was to read
she used to
read it, and finally
her
patience
wore thin and
i don’t know
how old
i was at the
time, but i’ll soon be 75,
and
i remember it
like it was
yesterday...
we
were watching
The Lone Ranger
on tv,
and
the bad guys
had The Ranger
tied up
and they lit a
stick of dynamite
and
set it on top
of a box that
had
letters on the
side and
while i kinda
knew what
the box was,
and what it said,
i still
had to ask her
to read it to
me anyway,
and she
got mad as hell
and said it was
dynamite
and
she was sick of
reading
everything for me
and
was never
gonna do it
again.
ever.
and she
walked out
of the room and
i yelled back
at her:
i don’t care what you think,
and as soon as i learn how to read
i’m gonna read everything everywhere that ever was
and you’re not gonna stop me!
and
that was
nearly 70 years
ago
and my sister
lives in Albuquerque now,
and she
kept her word,
and dammit, so
did i.
“i get
my
browns
from coffee,
and
my blacks
from eights.”
he
dropped
the mic and left.
the
poets
in the audience
didn’t know
what the hell he meant.
the
waiter
smiled.
in 1865
Eppenetus
McIntosh
was on the
steamship Sultana
just
outside
Memphis.
he was
on his way home
after
being released
from the horror
of Andersonville Prison.
the Civil War
had ended
and Eppenetus
was
asleep
when
a boiler on
the ship blew
up
and
he was
thrown into the
river
along with
hundreds and hundreds of others.
more
than 1,200
died in the
water that day.
not Eppenetus.
he
was saved
from drowning
and dragged to
shore
by Abraham
Arkansas Fogelsong.
imagine that.
you mean you
just split? took off?
yeah,
i’m gone
all fuckin’ day
and
all night
and
i do what i
want
and come and go
when i feel like it.
sure,
the place is
small
and there’s no
room for anything,
but
it’s mine
and that’s all
i care about.
but,
what about
Sandy?
never mind
her.
she can
take care of
herself.
always has and
always will.
besides...
he was gonna
say something more,
but
he didn’t.
he just
looked at the
floor...
and
the wall
and the window.
and
he stared at
the faces
passing by,
one
by one,
in the ever changing light.
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