THREE EXCERPTS FROM BRAZIL, INDIANA
a folk poem in the spirit of Ralph Eugene Meatyard
The fairgrounds “cow palace” in the middle of the park
across the street had a sheet metal roof
that bounced sounds
around so you could stand anywhere
and listen to the raccoons nested in the rafters
whispering their prayers.
The bare brick stage originally
built for cattle auctioneers
now hosted an annual battle of the bands
destroying everyone’s ears every summer.
I was that dumb, quiet boy over at the picnic table
trying to eat his own shadow.
****
He didn’t realize until later the irony
of buying his first Playboy
from a store with a dirt floor
and one dim light bulb on a chain.
Ten-years-old is too young for irony. Even in Brazil, Indiana.
Decades of dust caked the tin-dark windows.
The lady spitting tobacco juice into a cup
next to the cash register told him she wouldn’t bag it,
so the kid snuck the magazine home hidden
up his shirt. He walked alleys all the way.
Rusty staples tore the naked centerfold.
He sure as hell didn’t.
****
My barber went to prison for cocaine,
my best friend’s father for counterfeiting
twenty dollar bills in the basement
of the ag extension office where he worked
as a surveyor. The most sophisticated man
I ever knew, otherwise, was the director
of the high school marching band.
He drove into town in a Ford Pinto
backfiring blue smoke. (It broke down
before he could leave.) He had a mustache.
He and his beautiful wife still choreograph
football half-times that transcend the genre.
Brian Beatty’s jokes, poems and short stories have appeared in numerous print and online publications, including The Bark, Conduit, Dressing Room Poetry Journal, Elephant Journal, The Glasgow Review of Books, The Good Men Project, Gulf Coast, Hobart, Juked, McSweeney’s, Paper Darts, Phoebe, The Quarterly, Revolver, Seventeen, Southern Poetry Review, The Sycamore Review and Urthona. His writing has also been featured in public art projects and on public radio. He lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.
The fairgrounds “cow palace” in the middle of the park
across the street had a sheet metal roof
that bounced sounds
around so you could stand anywhere
and listen to the raccoons nested in the rafters
whispering their prayers.
The bare brick stage originally
built for cattle auctioneers
now hosted an annual battle of the bands
destroying everyone’s ears every summer.
I was that dumb, quiet boy over at the picnic table
trying to eat his own shadow.
****
He didn’t realize until later the irony
of buying his first Playboy
from a store with a dirt floor
and one dim light bulb on a chain.
Ten-years-old is too young for irony. Even in Brazil, Indiana.
Decades of dust caked the tin-dark windows.
The lady spitting tobacco juice into a cup
next to the cash register told him she wouldn’t bag it,
so the kid snuck the magazine home hidden
up his shirt. He walked alleys all the way.
Rusty staples tore the naked centerfold.
He sure as hell didn’t.
****
My barber went to prison for cocaine,
my best friend’s father for counterfeiting
twenty dollar bills in the basement
of the ag extension office where he worked
as a surveyor. The most sophisticated man
I ever knew, otherwise, was the director
of the high school marching band.
He drove into town in a Ford Pinto
backfiring blue smoke. (It broke down
before he could leave.) He had a mustache.
He and his beautiful wife still choreograph
football half-times that transcend the genre.
Brian Beatty’s jokes, poems and short stories have appeared in numerous print and online publications, including The Bark, Conduit, Dressing Room Poetry Journal, Elephant Journal, The Glasgow Review of Books, The Good Men Project, Gulf Coast, Hobart, Juked, McSweeney’s, Paper Darts, Phoebe, The Quarterly, Revolver, Seventeen, Southern Poetry Review, The Sycamore Review and Urthona. His writing has also been featured in public art projects and on public radio. He lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.