A backyard full of bummed-out Corvettes and rusty motorcycles, Triumphs, Harleys, parents acting like children, there they are. The driveway talks by spitting gravel underneath fast tires and yelling curses: Goddamn, Son-of-a-bitch most common. At sundown, ditches of spilled beer drain into a porch already water-damaged. A screendoor snaps against the pane, weaker than a nine millimeter being shot into the nightwoods. At sunrise, a backyard full of forgotten and misplaced mesh hats that read Peckerwood Power or Damn, I’m Good! or Holler Louder I Can’t Hear You. Sometimes a denim skirt or a pair of panties lay morning-dewed. But there's also a quiet, a stillness. Inside, a child dreams a future of a hundred homemade tattoos, crooked shapes, nasty letters, demon numbers, copperheads with bullet holes, bald heads, a million women to call mother, and a father who can't crank his motorcycle fast enough.
Jujitsu for Christ