thee streamside companion & angler's frequent respite

treatise, pomes, fine etchings & lyrics re. and not re. flyfishing (with an angle)

Friday, March 31, 2006

Moe Reed -- water in my boots

Looksee, Si, he goes, I gots tay ask ya a considerable favor, likes.
What is it Reed?
Look Si, I is feelin real low likes...
We all is Reed.
Si, my back is afflicted and I cannot even make to bend it, see? What say ya takes my turn ay humping crates out the barge and let me tend the fire.
No dice, Reed, hard bit ay this job’s been done. Ya ain’t taking me.
Ay Si, a bit ay heart, boyo... Likesay, I is feeling low... real low and pitiful.
That’s cause you is real low and pitiful, you worthless pile of shit, now get gone before ya gets a bit more affliction to cry about.
Likesay, I wasn’t in the best a moods, truth told.
And now Paddy, he burries his hatchet in a round and starts a chuckling like a hen, which no doubt boils Reed's kettle.
Outta line, Si, I was only asking for a favor, a bit ay kindness.
Well ya come looking for kindness in a well what run dry, Reed, now fuck off.
Now Paddy begins to whistle Cock and Bull, what gets the attention ay the Dutch boys humping they kettles to the fire.
Outta line, Si, ya prick drippin’ bastard.
Fuck off, Reed, and this is you last chance, see?
I though you was a right bower, Si... I though you was...
And that’s it for me. I gave the boy his chance. Fair game, fair go and now it’s game on. Short wick? Maybe, but I gots no use for whining cunts. I tosses down my hatchet and steps to him brisk. Reed’s eyes get big and I see him clench his jaw and ball up his fists.
What ya gonna do with them malls then, you weepy cunt, I goes, and puts my to hands into the windblown toss, knocking him back a few steps.
Si... you fucking serious? he sputters...
Even the sound of the cunt’s voice was a scratching at my hide now, so I just unloads upon him... a long swooping right what glanced off his cheek and sent him tumbling backward.
Si... hey boyo.. what the fuck, son?
And again, his voice was in my ear, thorns, fleas, ticks, briars, cold wind and water. So I runs up to him and begin battering him, just swinging and swinging, my fists hitting, skull, and shoulder and rib and face. Skull, shoulder, rib, face. Skull, shoulder, rib, face. I swings like a dervish, like me lid has come unskrewed. Skull, shoulder, rib, face. Battering, swinging, letting hir go, letting the cunt have it, every bit of it, letting it spill out of me, like soup boiling over, a forge stuffed red hot, hell with the lid off.
Finally, there’s Paddy, wrapping his arms round my neck; Willy Warner twisting my arms behind my back and a dozen other cunts yelling the name my Ma give me, laughing and hooting like coyotes. I expected to feel the hot, hot heat of hate, but all I could do was laugh. Laugh at Reed’s face, dripping cherry red and snot from his breather, his eyes swelling shut again, his ears ripe as summer tomatoes. Willy has me in a bear hug, but I lets fly with everything I can muster, shooting a glob of spit and shit in a considerable arc what lands in Reed’s black hair.
Reed, you broke dick dog. You whining cunt. Get your poxy hide out ay my sight before I send ya to the devil, you singed ass dog!
Reed, he just keeps stumbling backward, toward the barge, toward the water. He don’t utter, he don’t say shit to me or any boy.
Get to the drink ya cunt. Step in and keep walking. And I start a laughing again... Miserable piss mop. Worthless ass licker. Cunt. Idiot.
I feel my hart pounding, can feel the red rushing through my legs, my arms. My hair feels afire and I sucks in a bountiful ration ay air. Willy unlooses me and I just scream, not at any man, but at god, at the big nothing surrounding us, at the river runing slow and peacful 50 yards away. Arrrrrggggggghaaaa!
I spin to confront every cunt what is a watching... what you cunts looking at? What ya want. Ya want some ay that? I’ll turn ya cunts to pudding... any ay you cunts! I is still yelling... still breating fire but it’s Paddy who puts his meats upon my shoulders and finally gets me to settle.
You is raining the devil, boyo. Ay, let’s have us ay bit ay walk and get our feets beck ‘pon they ground, eh?
I swallows a big breath and says, aye... sound, Paddy.
Paddy wheels me away from the fire, his big mitt still upon my shoulds and we gets tay walking. What come ovir ya den, boyo? I ain’t never seen so much satan in ya... I was ‘bout tay get me beads oot fir that Reed boyo...
Cunts water in my boots, Paddy, what can I say? He sent me over the brink, likes...
I reckons ay bit ay dis will bring ye back, son... and the old fuck hands me his flask.
I feels something almost like love for the fucking bog trotting mic at that poing... a real kinship likes... a bond like we was close to brothers, and I takes the boy’s tin and send a stout one down me guts. In a second, Paddy outs his stag handle blade and has me by the hair and up against a massive beech tree. The blade’s at me throat and I can’t move or I slice my own neck, ear to ear.
Acknowleedge dis, son, ya tries that wilding with they likes ay Paddy Gass an’ by saints, you is lying in you grave.
I is too shocked, too overcome by this fucker’s power to even move, but I see the hellfire in his lamps and smell satan on his lips.
Hear me on dis, boyo, he goes, I tinks they whirld ay ye, but ya won’t get that shit by me, likes. Swear tay thee saints, I’ll send ya to eternity if ya ever so much as raise a fist to me, likes. See?
I gulps and nods quick likes and Paddy, he starts ay laughing and looses his grip from my hair. And the cunt he keeps a laughing, louder and louder as he sheathes his pick.
And I, feeelin so full of life and love and hate, I starts a laughing with him, but why, I can’t say...
What the fuck, you dry and whitered cunt... but the old dog soldier cannot get his wind back to answer, leaving me with only the option to stand there with my teeth in my mouth or to laugh along with him. I chose to laugh.

Thursday, March 30, 2006

Dog town

Rowed nine hours today, with two hours when we come by for the nooner. Passed a Mizzou Injun town what was filled only with ghosts. Three hundred houses painted bloody red, and not one bloody red injun to be found. Gives me the unease, as I ain’t never laid eyes upon an Injun town so extensive, let alone one lonely as this. They poles is bare, they firepits is grey blots and not a sound comes from thum, just the wind living there now.
Paddy says the pox got thum. Big John says they was waring with the Saukees and that be what snuffed thum. But I can’t scope no graves. Likesay, just the wind living there now. French boys was a shooting at the dogs running through the town, but they didn’t knock any over, of which I is glad. Prospecting a dead dog lying in the middle of that Injun town jest might send me to praying or to crying.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

thee oil of gladness

"Oh, we can make liquor to sweeten our lips
Of pumpkins, of parsnips, of walnut-tree chips."

A brick in the hat
All Nations
Angel tit
Brown Cow
Blue tape
Bull’s piss
Candle sweat
Coffin varnish
Grapple the rails
Gully wash
Gut oil
Hide your hat
Hoss kick
Knock down
Legal daily ration
Mad dog
Mountain dew
Neck oil
Nockum stiff
Phlegm cutter
O Be Joyful
Oil of gladness
Old Hock
Pop Skull
Rag water
Sky blue
Snake milk
Strip me naked
Thee olde author
Thunder n’ lightnin’
Tiger spit
Tongue oil