I always liked Hank Williams
in the morning cafe. Screendoors & wooden Indians
with cheating hearts in the afternoon
with Saturday hamburgers steaming
halved on plates, a pickle, toothpicks &
ice cracking Coke. Smoking.

Dropping coin & quick change artists shaking hands
dressed in town clothes leaning. Hands in pockets
denim clad falling. Eagle back & fringes,
resold boots shifting at the counter.
Fire looks, payday grins & beer. But, even
that is a bit much. That is why
we are here. Drinking.

Boots on dust. Flesh bone gristle.
Rubber on metal. Rubber on gravel.
Gravel on gravel.
Someone is in the basement making
gasoline bombs. Eating.


SU: Another amazing poem by Greg Daniels. As it happens, he and I grew up about 2 miles and 12 worlds apart back in Saskatchewan. Working on this project, I was like an awkward teenager because I was such a fan of Greg’s writing. Ahasiw picked up this and was entirely charmed – he even urged me to get Greg’s autograph. I told him to go fuck himself (Ahasiw, I mean).

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