Posts Tagged ‘voice’

Big Barbie


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.


Big Barbie knows pipes,

transmissions, belts,

better than any damn man.


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.


She’s got the best acid

in Chatham County.

Don’t go to Big Barbie’s

unless you’ve got cash.


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


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


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




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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Photo by Amber Yoder


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




Without The Wild Side of Creation,

The Fire Goes Flat


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.


It ain’t pretty, slick

or academic; it learns

lessons from crickets


coyotes howling

by bedrolls, hoboes,

coal trains in the night.


Pork and beans

around a ring

sticks ticking

hissing bark–


nails shooting

popping hot blue

stories after dark.


A good student,

I will never let

the wild eyed girl

burn out.


I won’t let the bastards

take the flame;  I won’t

let them piss it down

to embers.


Pistols in my lines,

thunder in my stomach,

thick brown gravy

on an old tin plate.


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


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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