SONG OF THE DAY: Fly Like An Eagle (kudzu'd)

One time, I heard a hippie say, “The Cherokee called turkey vultures ‘peace eagles’,” and honestly there has never been a more American (derogatory) experience in my entire life. Because of this, even though it made no sense to anybody, I would sometimes say, “The Powhatan called eagles ‘war vultures’,” when I could slip it in, usually in a larger conversation with people only partially paying attention to each other, mostly just waiting for their chance to tell the thing they thought of seven minutes ago that they can’t let go of to stay in pace with the actual conversation. In those instances, even though what I’ve said is entirely confusing, they don’t really wanna go into what the fuck did I mean because they’re actually not trying to listen, but talk, and not necessarily to you but at you. Anyways, I got bored with that even after doing it a few times, so now I say, “Over in Powhatan County, they call eagles ‘war vultures’.” This is especially funny to me because of what a shitty place Powhatan County is.

SONG OF THE DAY: Play At Your Own Risk

The history of racism in America affected the segregation of musical genres, which is a shame. It would’ve been nice, in retrospect, to have music jump those borders more easily. A great example of this for me lately is Planet Patrol’s “At Your Own Risk”, which was made of extra tracks not used in Afrika Bambaataa’s “Planet Rock”, so has a similarity to it, like an alternate third jersey version of Planet Rock almost. But there was a time in my life, when I had just gotten my license, and on Saturdays the liquor store in Farmville would close at noon, but the one in Drakes Branch was open ‘til 6. And my dad would get his weekend’s liquor supply Thursday after work in Farmville, because that was payday for him, and the liquor store was usually the first stop. But generally speaking, folks would show up on Friday night to play cards at our trailer, and bottles would get passed, and if anything was left at the end of a long Friday night, it wasn’t gonna go long on Saturday afternoon. So we’d drive to Drakes Branch to hit the liquor store, so he pops could restock for the impending long Saturday night (which would basically be a repeat of the previous night most times, with most of the same characters). If it was football season, he might even have to double up on the Saturday run to make sure Sunday afternoon was covered for the Redskins game.
In retrospect, that drive from our trailer in southern Prince Edward County, to Keysville, then turn by the abandoned factory on 59 to get to Drakes Branch, turning left onto Main Street of a town that was already dying even then, that close to Reagan’s politics of doom that turned the doomed into The Doomed, “At Your Own Risk” would’ve been the perfect soundtrack. And it’s a long enough song it could’ve ate up most of that 10 mile or so stretch on 59. I do recognize and appreciate my dad’s constant wishful thinking back then, that one bottle liquor on a Thursday evening was actually gonna be enough to last the whole weekend. Too bad he never got the help to get closer to making that equation actually work out. That too is the byproduct of all our segregation and division, where we get fractured into our little silos of self-destruction and think we’re out here going through something entirely on our own, when in actuality in that 10 miles we just drove down the road, even out in the middle of nowhere, we just passed 50 motherfuckers going through the exact same shit.

dullard southside virginia

back road black-and-white life got

colored up by ol’ lady

local dreams freight yard google searches poem

Charlottesville yard

history of the coal tower, where junkie killed sheltered kid

in the midst of rebellion against upbringing

now that area is cleared cutted

being made ready for progress

condominiums and pedestrian shops

white money is not completely spent

here, just yet

Gladstone yard

I am not australia, bro

poppin’ filter bubbles with new data mined

but I can tell you that Gladstone is quiet

turn of the road town with company houses

occupied by real people

and trains still sit there

sitting, waiting

I sit there sometimes too,

dreaming, delaying

“glad” stone

Burkeville yard

mama mack used to work

at the geriatric hospital right up the tracks

the geriatric hospital is closed

the tracks are not busy

abandoned concrete factory sits there railside

brick rancher family diner still serving

mashed potatoes and meatloaf

southside virginia

gone idle for the most part

but the prison is still busy

in fact, there’s two now

both with shiny fresh razor wire

that money’s still good and flowing

only job listing online is

fork lift operator

Crewe yard

I am not england, bro

how could google’s robotic delivery of details

overlook southside virginia’s busiest

rail yard, where a little

Raven Mack once rode

the bench on an all-star team that was

double eliminated in two days time?

the story of my life, born into

the loser’s bracket,

fighting for another day

every day

Clifton Forge yard

railfan youtubes galore

clifton forge stay busy

at the WV/VA border, coal trains everywhere

once as a young Raven Mack

was courting his birdmate

we “borrowed” a minivan

and drunk drove towards our destiny

though it was deferred

as I passed out behind a K-Mart

in Clifton Forge,

we ate breakfast at a joint

that was trackside

corned beef hash

motherfucker

Moseley yard

had no idea there was a yard

in Moseley, grandparents

lived there, I once worked

housepainting with a crew

of low rider racist rednecks who listened

to nothing but Tupac who lived

next door to my grandparents

apparently

we smoked weed together

as necessary

Belle Isle yard

british motherfucker riding a kid’s train

is the first result, what the fuck google

Belle Isle is a glorious landmark of the depths

and depravities of southern humanity

as based where the river’s mouth

widens and gets hungrier

at Richmond

how many prisoners died on Belle Isle

and how many homelesses still sleep in the bridge

and how many hits of acid did I do on those rocks

making the world looks like Houses of the Holy?

Kinney Crossover yard

not even a town with that name

just a remote yard outside

Lynchburg, headed back to Appomattox

where the Civil War died

back towards Farmville

where fuck man so much dark history

back through Abilene

where my youngest sister is about to birth

another young mack unto the world

in another ragged country home

on through Green Bay Burkeville Crewe

back to where populations still explode

and dreams are still chased

very few of us “crossover” though

but we are fucking people

and we keep doing our thing

against all odds

against all hope

with a “fuck it” mentality