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These
five paperback books from the Folk Literature Series are packaged together
in a handmade black slipcase.
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edited
by Robert Wolf An anthology of autobiographical sketches, fiction, and essays by residents of MATTHEW 25, a shelter for homeless men in Nashville. 82 pp. paper Read excerpt. |
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edited
by Robert Wolf Written by Iowa farm families around a kitchen table during winter nights, these stories describe the often bleak reality of life in rural America. 58 pp. paper Read excerpt. |
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by
Josef Goller Poems from prison by a man who says that "hate penned most of the words." Twenty years later, Josef Goller is a successful restauranteur. 24 pp. paper Read excerpt. |
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by
Rebel Yell A book of prose poems, Hitchhiker's Dream is the journal of a woman's hitchhike through the South in the summer of 1990. 26 pp. paper Read excerpt. |
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by
El Gilbert A collection of prose poems by an observer of honky tonks, would-be country western heroes, and the people who haunt the Nashville night. 24 pp. paper Read excerpt. |
Excerpts from The Folk Literature Series:
Lucky Lacey Lacey, for the benefit of those who don’t
know him, was the town drunk. But Lacey was not your average wino. No,
Lacey had been blessed with the gift of song and dance. I don’t
know where he was from, but it must have been a swinging place, because
Lacey was a cat, a cool jerk so to speak. Hot was an old guy who owned a juke joint
that most of us used to hang out in. Old Man Hot would put a quarter
in the juke box and play some of those down home blues that Lacey loved
so well. In fact, Lacey’s favorite part of Hot’s was the juke
box. That’s where he lived from sunup to sundown. Slime was a friend of mine who loved to
imitate Michael Jackson. He was crazy. And Christopher was the one guy
Lacey would talk to sober or drunk. For some reason Lacey trusted him.
So the music started, and away Lacey would go, spinning, turning, and
twisting. Now the only thing that was different about this wino is that
he could do all this with a fifth of redeye, and not spill a drop. It goes without saying that to Christopher
and Slime this was totally amazing. So amazing that Slime started imitating
Lacey. (See, I told you he was crazy.) Old Man Hot found it unbearable
to see a sixty-five year-old drunk acting this way. But as I said in
the beginning, Lacey was far from the denture-grip, rubbing-alcohol,
and rocking chair kind. No indeed, Lacey was a rocker without the chair.
As a matter of fact, there might have been a few moves Michael Jackson
might have stolen from him. from
More Voices From The Land Storm
Clouds It is a nice warm June afternoon. The
sky is a robin’s egg blue with the white cumulus clouds lazily
drifting on their way to their rendezvous with the horizon. A gentle
breeze ripples my short-sleeved shirt as I gaze out over the cornfield.
Knee-high already and the deepest dark green you can imagine. I think
about all of the money we borrowed and all of the planning and time
it took to get that crop to where it is now. My son comes to my side. Now my mind drifts
back to when I was his age and I stood beside my father looking at the
results of his toil those years before. Then I think, is this the end
of the line? I think of how farming has changed over my lifetime, of
how we have progressed to where profits are practically nonexistent.
What has he to look forward to should he wish to farm? I am filled with
a deep sadness and fear for his future, as I have seen an interest in
raising livestock and working with the soil being nurtured in him, maybe
even bred right into him. "Let’s go to lunch, Dad,” he
says. This brings me back to reality, and for
the moment I forget the future and the past. I look to the west and
see the dark ominous storm clouds rapidly moving upon us. “We had
better hurry,” I tell him, “or we are going to get wet.”
In the back of my mind I remember something being said on the radio
this morning about storms coming this way. We finally get home and just as we come
into the house, the rain begins to fall. Shortly the full fury of the
storm is upon us. As I watch, looking ut through the window, I think
of how the days of my life go. How the clouds on the horizon of my sunrises
sometimes, later in the day, turn into the black clouds of fear, of
despair, of anger, of uncertainty, and of depression. As suddenly as it began the storm ends.
The corn is bent but not broken. Soon the sun will come out and the
corn will straighten and begin to grow again.I think how a turnaround
in the farm economy would revive the farmers, make them refreshed with
that spirit and vigor that has always been a farmer’s attribute. Tonight I will thank the Lord for seeing
me through today and ask for guidance for tomorrow. With spirits bent
but not broken. Phrasing Gray walls, steel bars Pretty boys lifting weights The morning’s without sun Lying on my bunk Bedsprings start to sing Guards changing shifts Received a letter Too bad hate’s not Don’t tell me The great promise! Nothing really new
by Christopher Crawford
back to top
by Richard Sandry
back
to top
by Josef Goller
put them in a jar
& flush them down the toilet
& spending time
broken down at the waist
so I stare at the glare
of the 50 watt freak
thinking about the punk
who winked at me!
to the only tune
& the face on the wall
but not the rules
doesn’t matter, got my own
a week old
& means just as much
shaped like a key
I’d have a Masters
what time it is
it may be too late
Two cars in every garage
& a T.V. in every cell
about my style,
just the way it’s expressed . . .
back
to top
Just Relaxing along the Interstate
by Rebel YellJust relaxing along the interstate at the exit
215 B, just watching the traffic going by me,
not a care in the world.Traveling free spirit just watching the travelers
heading down the road and watching people getting
off the interstate,sitting in the tall grass and playing with
the grasshopper with their skin is green like
the grass they live in,watching the semi rolling down the I-40
heading eastbound and knowing it’s going to
rain soon or tonight,knowing it’s too late to out my thumb
and to get on the open road, to get away
from the city,knowing the weekend is coming up soon
in a few more days and it’s time to
hit the open road.
back to top
Look Again
by El GilbertShe has worked hard all week,
goes to Shoney’s Sundays for grilled liver,
baked potato & iced tea. $3.59 including tax.
Not bad except for Muzak, the view from the window:
paint peeling off the Quality Stamp Redemption Center sign.She lights a cigarette.
The man in the next booth coughs.
A little girl across the way watches,
twists one ankle behind the other,
wonders what she looks like without her clothes on.
(Fat, honey, fat. Dark pubic hair & fat.)She is a dropout, a poet & like most poets
doesn’t own/drive a car,
which is the only reason she comes here at all.Her girlfriend, a 43 year old newspaper columnist from
Grand Rapids, says that’s obscene . . . “All responsible
people drive cars.”
(Do they?)Beads of sweat form under her nose.
Funny . . . air conditioners don’t work as well
as they used to.
Change-of-life couldn’t be that bad . . . or could it?She scans the paper for jobs, apartments, help.
But the only job is the one she’s got,
apartments are for couples & there isn’t any help.The waitress dashes between the busy tables
around her, forgets to refill her coffee cup.
It’s hard to keep track of single customers . . .
especially women.
She leaves a quarter tip,
returns to her hot plate/four walls,
the blank pages in her typewriter.
back to top
5 paperback books
$25
