WB

Mackinaw Spoon

Anti-Copyright 2013 NERE Press, Stl MO xnetkids@yahoo.com mackinaw.spoon@gmail.com Thank you, Trophies. Thanks Dad.

Knife at a Funeral

To Hell w/Honesty

WB Stafford

Deities

Knife at a Funeral

I wanted to stick the old man. The funeral planned and I

a moment weighing prospects An evening my front porch ask the girls mother if shell seize some opportunity were I arrested in Texas For whatI wanna know, I say, you wouldnt leap at having an edge to seizing custody of Charlie or some Some, she echoes Ill get arrested if I go to Texas. Dont go to Texas.
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My grandad changed his will the day after my father passed. No arrangements to reach Nashville, no interest in the funeralhe an attorney takes his money exacts his wishes If mom will not move to Texas, move in with him, shes out: No role in the execution of his will, and no money tied up for some years. When dad died, mom was obviously in shock; my sister and I waded through bills, explained subtle nuances of hook and genuine claim. We taught her how to pay bills, organize paperwork, write checks, etc WB chose the crazy one to execute his last wishes. Resonates with me. Crazy. He always believed we never reached the moon. He blasted a hole in a bedroom wall with a shotgun one night a long time ago aiming at Satan. Mom has a business to run, a daycare, working parents who depend on her. She has a large house full of stuff a home, a mortgage, a stake in a faltering economy Shes disgusted by the old mans actions. She doesnt believe him, but when she tells me tears tell different My mother has a sister who believes in her fathers wisdom. A sister whose materialism snaps the eye of a needle obesely like a girdle gives and the eye tears loose, vacant as absurd desire pursuing this shit that shapes us

 She doesnt see this because shes afraid of the dark; sight has so blighted her vision that she believes what she does see is in fact reality. A lens has fused with her eye but in this case many would define said lens as shield No one else is capable of seeing through it A sister chooses to mark the event of her fathers death as the originary of the split between three sisters. Everyone else in the world is wrong but her.
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My mothers endured hypoglycemic shock many times after speaking with Yolanda. She has bouts of insomnia. Her stomachs torn up and she echoes a malaise not unfamiliar when she speaks of dread wrapped round her each morning rising from a bed she can only desire Any action is too much except rolling over, breathing, pulling an arm under the pillow But she never stays in bed. My mother is a machine. Her sister is a drone. The sum of her idealism is easily accessible in the wide-reaching thighs of late capitalist society. Its garnished with a healthy dose of theology, the bible-thumpin sort Shes got sources, the alleged, when it comes to conclusions. Mom is a machine who repairs herself. Shes no need of stamps, nods; she has a brain that thinks for itselfisnt idle, no, all plugged in And this makes her weird. Weird isnt verbally declaring how vile her father for pulling his pecker out in the driveway to urinate upon exiting the vehicle, before entering the house disgusting because he doesnt bathe and she can smell him. My mom asks Elvira to stay the night, Spend the night at the house Her sister says No WB had been hospitalized. He wasnt exemplary yet wasnt done. Sent home. Hed been anesthetized and the effects were still with him (My God LaDell, said Elvira, the man wet all over his pants legs wobbling Stay, pleaded mom. Her sis split. WB fell in the kitchen. No one was there to watch him struggle but if you imagine the usual placement of kitchen chairs turned out turned over, as one may have grabbed em in an effort to claw forward if you can see the rug gnarled bunches where it is said his fists clenched, youd agree he fell in the kitchen, turning over chairs, and crawled in search of his oxygen tank, never quite reaching it. Elvira found him the following day

many hours after

She described the scene to mom

I told her her sister had killed him

Not long, and the man was dead.

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I loved WB, and I still do, but when the will was read and my moms fears materialized, I wanted to stick the fucker. I hope he saw Jesus when he left this fucking shit realm I dont care for Yolanda because her loony tunes have completely alienated me; and her disrespect for my mother has rendered upon her the character of antagonism I care for Elvira but I cannot forgive her disrespect for her father I love WB, the bastard. Some villains hooks score secrets. They abhor lava, fire and central score figure here
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Mom aligns with one sister against the other. I applaud adding, Yes, the old man would have died soon I say that isnt the point, he died on someones watch. Sad its less evil Mom gets it, the shit Im layin down.

 A conspiracy to burn a will is exposed. Other secrets huddle in shadows.

x x

My auntA nephew with a mouth She shutters

Stl MO February 2013

To Hell w/Honesty

My grandad suggests I find a Mexican or Indian woman they wont cheat on you, theyll be good to youjust dont cheat on them! theyll kill you! In his day, were I him, were this to have happened to him, she would be dead, both of them and Id be bragging lifting the heel of my boot to the bar showing everyone the blood Instead, divorce is difficult. Its murder without corpses.
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My grandads eighty-five. Hes done a lot of bad in his day. Used to be downright mean. Did a lot of drinking, whoring. Loved to fight. Used to run with Hoyle Nix. (Whacha up to Wwouldve been 1949. Story goes my grandad was sauced when he showed up, sat down, having pulled a milk crate replied, Workin on the railroad, sleepin on the ground, eatin saltine crackers, ten cents a pound.) Always honkey-tonking. He was a songwriter, worked his ranch, had a family. He abused them. One time he got crazy on liquor and tried to shoot his wife, who happened to have my mother in tow. From his pickup truck, off dirt road into trees til he can no longer manage driving and shooting so he open the door, jump out and fire into and when hes empty, realizes theyve disappeared walks back to the house. My mother and grandmother pass the dead truck the next morning. My grandad asleep at the kitchen table when they reach the house. Another time, he rode a horse over my mother. Another, he forced her to leap from the roof of their home into his arms.

 Over Thanksgiving, we bury his wife, Lazell. Hes noticeably absent. I struggle to imagine no, I cope. Cant imagine. I havent life left to be married as long as he My grandmother succumbed to dementia years ago. The extent to which her subsequent admission to the care of the state of Texas was incremental in her ultimate demise is not known; atrocious, her years there, and inhumane. The crawl up the crags to law summons defeat in the imagination. We spread prayers and flowers. I drive grandad to the liquor store just past a sign Now Leaving Cass County We grab our bottles. He goes to the head of the line, roosting beside the cashier. Some customers in line look at us. Some dont. The cashier recognizes him, evidently now, proceeding with our purchases, breaking the rhythm of the line. No one scowls. Im briefly amazed. Outside the door, he hands me his bag, Goin round back to piss. I slip inside my car, roll to the edge of the building. He rounds the corner after a moment, pulling at his zipper No problem getting into my Jetta. He uses a cane now but crows something of climbing over barbwire and running down poachers in Little Tango, indicating a level of spit remaining in his resources when I apologize for his having to fall into the seat. We roll back to the house. Getting out of my car, he walks to the back and again urinates, this time pulling his pecker out mid-sentence with my following the conversation til Im fore the awful member spills gold
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Were worlds apart. We pull on our bottles. Its finally dark. One note here: This is one of my chosen landscapes of death. I shall attribute this to a conversation I once had with the ex after reading a bit of Virilio. If I could choose, if I can be in control of place when I die, it will have been my grandfathers ranch in Texas. (Or a beach, while Im being honest. But I didnt have a choice. I died in a living room ) Ive been on the ranch in dreams such another history appears, buds, blurs this one; Ive always been here, summers, holidays The vast pasture is heaven. Leaps into my heart. Fulfills every attempt We are still worlds apart. His home, my sepulcher. We get drunk. We try and forget women, and this forgetting renders my grandfather incapable of speech.
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 Grandad convinced his wife not only would he kill her if she left him, but first hed kill their children, force her watch before she was done. If you love your kids, he was reported as having said It is mad logic. What were my grandmothers options? Who can really say without the benefit of her experienceI think we could all say were she to have left him, and somehow survived; but she didnt. The desire to be free was beyond my grandmother, not an option at all, nowhere on the radar. The desire to be free was unreal. In reality, she survived by giving everything in the world away. Around the time of my birth, she took great pride in having her name appear on the title of the ranch I would come to know and adore; finally, it seemed, something was hers. (Of course, his name was on it too, but this was different. Her name had never gone anywhere.) Never knew the woman my mother describes. She did things Id heard a lot about. She killed chickens, snakes. She kept a lush garden. She tracked animals took me into woods and taught me how to breathe and listen. She sat with me at night, times the Milky Way was visible She gave me arrowheads. He spat behind my ear, having pulled me close, having brandished his pocketknife, Im gonna cut your ear off kid and pressing the blade Outside in the lawn he would often tell me to dance, throwing his knife into the ground close to my feet. He made me dance. He made me run. When my grandmother what? went crazy? lost it? When my grandmother could no longer take care of herself, after she had been diagnosed with dementia, my grandfather took care of her. Until he went ill, nearly died. Then she was placed in the care of the state of Texas Grandad believes his having to put her in a home killed her. It didnt happen overnight, in fact, she languished, impacted, starving in an unwashed bed for entirely too long. I imagine her final months charted like the slow spread of bacteria. I understand what he means, the fact of her situation a result of choices
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 I have the thought he must somehow be experiencing the double of his destroyed wife, who in marriage was the destroyed young woman, of whom it could be said, was captive. But they loved each other. Somehow, impossibly These are years I know. There are years wherein only the loud, menacing meanness of the old man lingered. Ive never witnessed the cruelty Ive heard tell, ripe in the stories with which I grewI am listening to grandad himselfHe laughs, sweats wipes his bald, craggy head. He rejects nothing. He knows Boy, I woulda hated to run into me back then There are doubles of them both. These doubles are assigned in my memory to stages in my life, not necessarily theirs but One set, Im younger, the stories come to me. The other Im living with and later married to the woman I love, and even later, Im bringing the great-granddaughter Charlie doesnt remember my grandmother, but they met. Charlie was young, was fascinated by my grandmothers near comatose state. She was secretly proud of herself at mealtime because she was feeding herself. My grandads emerged in another state, no longer simply doubled but a different composite, another cast of himself imposed in twilight, one experience, it seems, ahead of him I know this without knowing it. Ive witnessed death. Not his. Theres a nature to us we cant know. And it is like a law. To hell with knowledge, to Hell with honesty. To hell with happiness.
Avinger, TX November 2007

WB Stafford

the railroad wasnt his ordinary gig but crops hadnt turned like hed been accustomed and little mouths to feed meant hed need the extra money, especially to keep the alcohol flowing, perhaps his primary concern. WB wasnt the shining example of a family man. He did bring the money round (eventually), but he often split for weeks at a time, leaving the family and farm in pinches. One night, after workin the railroad, after pickin up a bottle of whisky and a box of crackers, he makes Hoyle Nixs place where Hoyle and the West Texas Cowboys often practiced, played and, generally, got drunk. The modest home in Big Springs, TX was often cluttered with poor, working class songwriters and musicians, friends and family, drifty girlfriends Sometimes it was just the band or maybe Hoyle and a couple of others WB lets himself in and thats the case tonight. The band. WB loads off, climbin up a long bitch of a day turnin over a wooden crate and sittin down in the sparsely furnished room. Hes got his whisky and his crackers. Hoyle cracks wise and WB plays along. He passes his bottle round the room. Hoyle says he and boys are close to jewel, explains the song theyre workin on is nearly done. So, hit me Winford, says Hoyle and WB says, Workin on the railroad Sleepin on the ground Eatin Saltine crackers Ten cents a pound Turns out, WB didnt make it home that night. Not the few before or following. Benders. That night he slept on Hoyles floor. The next morning, he drank Hoyles coffee, ate the eggs & biscuits and went back to the railroad to suffer long toward another days pay. Big Balls in Cowtown was a hit. It was 1949, and in a few years Hoyle would open The Stampede on Snyder highway outside Big Springs where WB bounced for many years. Sides good pay & free booze, the gig afforded him song & dance, loose women, and the occasional brawl. What more could he ask forHe was handsome & rugged, could sing and woo He was a surprisingly strong man whose strength compounded when he drank. His penchant for violence (and promiscuity) was a matter of record downtown.

Legend has it WB had been workin

 Could have been the money, could have been the company, the talent, he said; or the opportunity to prowl; but WB would never fail to recollect the good ol days without simultaneously testifying that these were the best years of his life. WB passed away in June of this year. He was 88 years old. In addition to having lived a cowboys life, that is, having fancied himself a dying breed, having positioned his character at the end of a brief, explosive period in American history, he also fancied himself a songwriter. The few, uncredited lines above are his only published. Gathered here are a sample of his surviving notes & songs. Stl, MO
August 2010

Little Flower Shes waiting for me in a rose covered veil, and her eyes are like diamonds after a shower. The fond dimple doe comes to lie at the feet of my fare flower so modest and sweet. The ringed neck dove comes to sit on the shoulder of the one I love. Theres no artist can paint, theres no poet can write how she warms the cold like a sunbeam so bright. She will laugh, she will sing, she will sway, and her laughter will echo like ripples at play, til my troubles like my heart she has stolen away. I will pick tender blossoms to twine in her hair, blushing roses so red with the lilies so fare an emerald dew, buttercup yellow and forget me not blue. Ill love and protect her and never will part from my fare flower who twines my heart.

Wings White as Snow I will serve my lord on earth, til its time for me to go. Then I want to wear my wings in glory, those wings as white as snow. I want to pass through pearly gates and walk streets of gold, wear my wings in glory, wings white as snow. I want to meet my loved ones for I know thats where theyll go, and well spread our wings in glory, those wings white as snow. I want to be with Jesus, the one who saved my soul. Wear my wings in glory, wings white as snow. I will serve my lord on earth til its time for me to go. Then, Ill soar to glory on wings white as snow.

 The Beautiful Place When our work on Earth is done And this bodys turned to clay Will you be ready for a journey To that beautiful place far away When He comes on a cloud of glory Every eye shall behold Him. And every knee shall bend before him. O itll be a little late on that day To get your ticket to that beautiful place far away You better get on your knees and pray Ask forgiveness every day If you want to live forever In that beautiful place far away When our work on Earth is done And this bodys turned to clay Will you be ready for a journey To that beautiful place far away Where evening sun will never set But shine brighter than day Where we will meet our loved ones In that beautiful place far away When our work When our work

Eyes on the Cross Follow the world on the path of destruction And your soul is sure to be lost You got to walk the path straight and narrow And keep your eyes up on the cross Walk the straight and narrow Sing praises to the Lord Keep your eyes on the cross And in Heaven we will reap our rewards We were born into this world of sin and sorrow Just like a flower, here today and gone tomorrow And our soul can sure be lost You got to walk straight and narrow And keep your eyes up on the cross Walk the straight and narrow Sing praises to the Lord Keep your eyes on the cross And in Heaven we will reap our rewards Jesus died for those who believe And keep faith from ever being lost So walk the straight and narrow And keep your eyes up on the cross Walk the straight and narrow Sing praises to the Lord Keep your eyes on the cross And in Heaven we will reap our rewards

 Another You You say men run around and Id run around too Id be the first to admit If theres another one of you Butt of My Gun They believe every lie. And I laugh when they cry. I make a mark for every broken heart. I number them one by one. And like men when they fall, I count them by the notches on the butt of my gun. I love them and feast and love them for fun and like men when they fall I count them by the notches on the butt of my gun.

Untitled Im gonna be a lover in someones arms tonight. Thought I married a man but turned out hes a mouse, so tonight I am leaving this ol house When hes asleep, Ill slip out still and mute the stars are shining and the moon is bright Im gonna be a lover in someones arms tonight. You said you didnt love me no more, we were through You thought I would sit alone crying, blue. But the stars are shining, its Saturday night and Im gonna be a lover in someones arms tonight. Well drink beer and dance til finally well bow to the east, I reckon theres someone wholl treat me right. Im going to be a lover in someones arms tonight. Now when you miss me and want me back, youll be alone in your dirty little shack And youll muse you can treat me right No, Im the lover in someones arms tonight.

Deities

in a bedroom wall taking aim at SatanEvils all round us, kid, he said once Maybe the house was haunted, I joked. Only those with eyes to see are haunted, he squinted good. It was a blessing to be haunted but a burden and responsibility. Id grown up hearing another story at bedtime, the same he once confessed at a kitchen table (He may have been drunk) Jesus personally intervened to save his lifetwice the story goes; and the way I remember it, WB wasnt living up to his end of the bargain. I heard that William Boyd had, in the act of portraying Hopalong Cassidy in the mid- nineteen-thirties, (or perhaps, as it occurs to me so many years later, his stunt double) leapt from a horse in order to gain a leg on a bad guy who, naturally, had tied a woman (in this story, the girl is a friend of WB, as is the other kid playing Mr. Mean) I saw that shit at the cinema, he cackled, choking a bit, figured we should re-enact, you know I remember how he gestured, how he cocked his head and looked at me with one eyeI rode my horse past Mean, kicking and then swinging but landed a good blow with him droppin back where I approached the fence surrounding the corralWB used her name but I dont recollect it, I was young this a decade before I carried a notebook anywhere He leapt from his horse, made the fence (composed of generous, sturdy round wooden posts, stripped of bark and bleached in Texas sun before he made the female he slipped something about his boots The boy split his belly open. He jumped from steed to fence rushed slipping into the charade which I reckon is childhood how to tell a boy who lassos who rustles who rides Charlie rode early. Took to horses. They loved her. 1937 is thrown out, though theres hardly any documentation I am in position to materializeYes, WB had slipped on the fence, impaled I remember the first time I inspected the scar

WB used his shotgun to blast a hole

 I was short, he loomed far above

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Some creative fucker had the idea to remove and reposition one of WBs ribs in order to gird his organs before sewing him up. The boy was thick with infection. His fever Doctors told his mother to prepare herself. The boy wouldnt see morning. She stayed with him that night. Tucking him in was natural. Reading was ordinary. She held his hand after that, praying with him while he was awake. She kept his forehead covered with a wet washcloth. When he finally slept, she sat at the foot of the bed in a rocker. Shortly before dawn, a while after WB had last opened his eyes (she watched sheets slowly undulating with rhythm winding down for a bit only trembling she was assessing her emotions seeing the boy rest)He snapped awake, looked to her without rising, smiled and said, I see Jesus His mother shrieked without looking around for Christ, bolted up and ran from the room in search of a doctorMy boys dead! Hes dead! But WBs improving. He has a story. Theres a point in any room where walls collide to corner and create a dot in the ceiling, a corner point. Thats where Jesus came from. The tiny spot in the corner of the walls at the ceiling lit up like a spark, and from that light he descended. He told WB he would save him but he needed something in return. The boy complied. WB was asked to minister, to preach, spread the good word in deeds and diction. Am I to be a preacher, the boy asked. Jesus smiled said, Dont let me down. His mother, doctors, returned to the room to find WB sitting up in bed quite free of fever, lively, charged.
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 He relayed his story at a kitchen table in Cass County, Texas. The same I grew up round. The Lord came to see me again, he added, squinting, grabbing the questionable coffee mug Working a tractor or some other farm-ish device, my memorys sketchy at best but hes riding something working his land when hes thrown from the seatthe entire machine locks upbut his ass doesnt hit earth, hes scooped from air put back into the seat in time to see Jesus ascending Remember WB hears
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Unintentionally, Id threatened WBas evidenced by his raising his fist only to scurry, spottin round with his eyesI dont know what happened. My efforts to recall this kernel of our conversation eludes me except maybe I called him out on his fear of death I aint afraid to die. Youre scared by what follows.
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At one point in his life, WB had begun to spot Satan. He knew plenty Hell was coming, plenty hed done to attract it; a little undone. He told me about the bedroom wall. Told me about a backseat, a diner, others. He spoke of conferences, the details of which, sunk low beneath black ceilings and orange-yellow hearths, were not revealed at the kitchen table. WB whispered in a way, perfectly audible (with only a ceiling fan whirring over our heads), secrets more like essential evidence wedged into the rubber treads of kicks or dried and left to set, stain, unavoidable to the eyes (ears) as unlit sums of reluctant neurons poised to gash the heart. I heard his pain. He had humbled himself. Hed begun to pull his bandana from his overalls, wipe his eyes. I watched him choke up, coughing. I heard it; saw his chest undulating where his denim shirts unbuttoned. It looked like a heaving, silver nest riding a storm. I imagined darkly

 silhouetted birds, too dark to be seen, squeezing through his pores. Hes finally angry. Wed been swapping stories. Having some laughs sizing each other up. Turned dead serious.
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I know WBs wife tried to shoot him three times. I know two of those times occurred while WB had the habit of removing the rounds, carrying them in his pocket. I know my mother pulled a kitchen knife on him one afternoon in 1957 as my Dads ride pulled up a county road toward the house. Said shed kill him if he hurt Charles. You really think you can take me, girl? If I dont, I know where you sleep. Incidentally, LaDell and Charles had been married for a month. Theyd simply neglected to tell anyone. Dad was twenty-years-old. Mom was sixteen. A flight
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WB went to strike me. But didnt. Years later mom said, Your granddaddy never crossed your father said maybe something of him in me He did cross my dad, but only after the man was dead. I salute WB, less for his infamy, more for his wisdom not to cross a breathing, living I know how shit smears I mean, I mean what mom saidI know where you sleep. Thats what I said to WB (Abhor because he symbolizes self-loathingmine You recognize your own. WB walked away that day. Left the kitchen. I dont recall what I did next. Outside, the pasture was heaven.) Stl MO
February 2013 x

 Notes & Thanks Knife at a Funeral opens in 2010 but appears during the final closing throes of WBs estate (2013): An exceedingly insufficient account of the period. To Hell w/Honesty first appeared in Like Im Dead, University of Missouri-St. Louis (2011). WB Stafford first appeared in Mens Spoon Magazine Series No 8, Nere Press (2011). Deities accounts for an afternoon sitting at a kitchen table with my grandfather (a conversation tween WB and myself in the 1980s) after having challenged his authority with respect to just how much catsup was enough catsup Hed chastised my cousin Kristi for her consumption but not me when I renewed my engagement with the bottle Nothing of Deities concerns my cousin, catsup, or the consumption of said condiment.
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Id like to thank the fucker, not for his sense of humor but for his crazy undead spirit. I so wish Id stuck a knife in him. Thanks to the muse, thanks to my teacher; tho Ive not laid eyes on em in months, they continue with nutrients.

 Also by Mr. Spoon The Corpse of Mickey Mouse Homage Bckpg Girlie Night 3: The Script Cracked, 1953 Fabula Love in the Desert Dearly Departed