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Posts Tagged ‘voice’

Big Barbie

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Has black plastic trash bags

taped over the windows

in her single-wide trailer.

.

Three hundred pounds

of Triple D axle grease,

Big Barbie’s got a tattoo

of a dead cop on her ass,

.

short white spike hair

black boots, tunnels

in her ears; she rides

naked on her Harley

in the middle of the night.

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Big Barbie knows pipes,

transmissions, belts,

better than any damn man.

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She likes to play rough

with pretty little dolls,

knock off their heads

.

and leave them laying

in a dumpster behind

Angel Mae’s Bar.

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She’s got the best acid

in Chatham County.

Don’t go to Big Barbie’s

unless you’ve got cash.

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But once a month

when her pipes get funky,

she sits by the window

.

and thinks about how

her stepfather raped her.

She thinks about the baby

those bastards took away.

.

Big Barbie cuts her arm

with a rusty razor;

tweaks while she bleeds

into black plastic space.

-Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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This poem originally published in Don’t Call Me Plath.

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Girls Will Be Girls

Salt Water Girls In An Old Chevy Truck

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Pammy Wammy

is the queen

of carburetors

and axle grease.

.

She knows how

to rev up

that dusty

blue tank.

.

Son, we love

her truck with a

rattling passion

.

with a crick-crack

of the dashboard

.

pouring oil

throwing bolts

.

and 98 degrees of

rolled down wind.

.

Neither law men

nor horny boys

can catch up with

.

our sun tan legs

bouncing on

hot vinyl seats

.

in time to the

Allman Brothers.

.

Just a couple of

saltwater cowgirls

on high tide roads

.

with one eye

on the potholes

and two fingers

on the wheel

.

downshifting

fishtailing–

slinging mud

in our wake.

.

Yessir, honey,

that old mule

will take us

across the state.

.

It won’t matter

if we break down,

Pammy Wammy

just cusses under

the steaming hood

.

til she gets her

blue smoke

rolling again.

.

Rev her up and dump her, son!

.

You’d better

believe us,

Cappy Jack,

cause we ain’t

.

coming back

.

til the fat lady

tells our mamas

.

and we cat drag

our sorry selves

through the door

.

reeking of no good

.

lies between our teeth

and a bunch of stories

we’ll not admit in court

.

even if a .38 Special is held

against our pretty heads

.

even on our deathbeds

even if that old truck

ever breaks down

for good.

.

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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Fire on the Mountain

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Photo by Amber Yoder

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Please take a moment to check out Art Coelho’s amazing art work at his site

by clicking HERE. The art work is breathtaking.  Art Coelho is multi-

talented.  He is also a master poet and writer of fiction.  You can also read his

bio and see some of his books from Seven Buffaloes Press by clicking the link

above.

******************************************************************************

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Without The Wild Side of Creation,

The Fire Goes Flat

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For Art Coelho

Mentor, Friend

The Title, His Words

.

You taught me how

to poke it, stoke it,

pour whiskey on it,

keep it roaring hot.

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It ain’t pretty, slick

or academic; it learns

lessons from crickets

.

coyotes howling

by bedrolls, hoboes,

coal trains in the night.

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Pork and beans

around a ring

sticks ticking

hissing bark–

.

nails shooting

popping hot blue

stories after dark.

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A good student,

I will never let

the wild eyed girl

burn out.

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I won’t let the bastards

take the flame;  I won’t

let them piss it down

to embers.

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Pistols in my lines,

thunder in my stomach,

thick brown gravy

on an old tin plate.

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Sparks flying

from my lips,

I tip my hat

to the master,

.

then pass the flask

to the next

one in line.

.

We’ll go down

flinging fire

through the grate.

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

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This poem was originally posted at Rusty Truck.   Hop over and take a look

at all the fine poetry over there.  Thanks for reading!

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