Slim Pickens

For a pint golden of whiskey
Or maybe religious sickness of cigarettes,
Old man Pickens held services
And they came:
Mildewed leather bikers,
Crazed babbling trash,
White, Black or brown,
Ripe-young or rotting old --
Slim would kneel.

At Fatman's trailer, playpen Oxnard,
Slim, stumbling like an old ragged dog,
Bumped into smelly death
Gun-crazed and bored racist,
Pants now soaked with whiskey,
Thanks to sloppy slim.

Our bored minister of hate,
Nigger-hatting nuclear Nazi
Had a smile of an idea.
Revenge!
Slim won't spill again.

That smile made lonely Slim a friend by evenings end.
"Forget the whiskey you spilled Slim."
"Let's go a shootin' up by Rose Valley."
(I won't forget the rope).

He tied with rope-burns that scared pissless old animal,
Hands bound, sensing death, shaking, pleading and doomed
Full of dirty oil rags and tools was that old Chevy trunk,
There Slim lay in the dark,
Feeling the bumpy road to home,
Destined for a hole below the backyard grass.

A cylindrical fine-made model "A" lay below shinning.
"Why this part of Oxnard has no plumbing.
So we buy these useful things.
They only need to be emptied every other year.
You'll be unrecognizable by then."
(Smile)

After three days of nightmare screaming, unheard,
Lying in dark shit and natural warm stinging water,
Slim ascended in his sleep
His body returned to the earth
Now rotting, not missed
In a cesspool.