The August Special Guest Poet is Joe R. Lansdale
Please feel free to visit Joe at: http://www.joerlansdale.com/
DEATH BEFORE BED
In dark cloak
and bunny slippers
I ride the country wild.
With scythe and croaker sack
I gather them up,
those shadows strong or mild.
I put them away,
and kick them some,
to quiet them down of course.
And then I carry them
quick to home,
on my wicked little horse.
Carry them fast,
like a tornado wind
where a hole in the earth awaits.
I toss them down,
I push them down,
I kick them in the ass.
Down there in the pit,
where the flames lick up,
I leave them and laugh.
APACHE WITCH
In the wild country where the West wind blows,
the demon of the desert comes and goes.
Dark like a shadow, a mouth full of blood,
there's nothing out there but it and the dead.
Lives in a cave near a dark red butte,
hides there by magic, in an old cavalry boot.
Released by a spell from an Apache witch,
it twists and it turns and howls like a bitch.
Lizards and coyotes, buzzards and men,
it kills and kills, again and again.
But kill it must, and each night it comes,
until a cowpoke arrives with a lamp and a gun.
The lamp is lit with oil from a dog,
and around the cowpoke's neck,
on a string of braided gut
is a dried up frog and a hickory nut.
The rifle is packed with bullets of silver and lead,
little charms buried deep in the ammo heads.
An Apache woman, the witches daughter, the cowpoke's wife,
made it to save her husband's life.
So Apache magic meets head on.
The demon whirls with a desert song.
The cowboy fires his gun and throws his lamp.
The demon roars and the night turns damp.
Out of a cloud against a moonlit sky,
comes a rain of black lumps like a cobbler pie.
It blows and it whirls and it twists and it turns,
and when it hits the demon it smokes and it burns.
The cowpoke's magic makes the demon cry.
It even melts the damn thing's eyes.
The rain on the cowpoke is heavy and wet,
but for the demon it's the worse thing yet.
The demon becomes a twirl of smoke.
and the cowpoke laughs like it's all a joke.
On his way home he yells and he cries,
for the demon was made of his poor child's sighs.
The baby's breath stolen by a cat
that was black as the pit and little pig fat.
The Apache witch sucked the baby's soul,
because his daughter made the child in a soldiers bed roll.
So stealing a boot
and casting a spell,
the witch had wrecked vengence
so very well.
Wearing moon silver
like armor and mail,
the former soldier,
rode home to his wife.
They dried their tears and climbed in bed,
the stars at their window,
the wind at their door,
the howl of the coyote like the call of the dead.
They came together in a tearful wail,
loved one another with all their might,
tried to make a child that very night,
did what they could to set themselves right.
Back on the desert,
next day in the sun,
the Apache witch man
was dead and done.
Found at the mouth of a cave near an army boot,
the witch man was burned and wadded,
with a hole in his chest,
the demon of the desert had left its nest.
OINK
Sometimes pigs come to visit me.
They are tall and stand on their hind legs.
They knock on the door,
carrying give-away bibles.
They’re here to convert me.
Oink. Oink.
If I hide and don’t answer.
They walk around the house,
trying to peek through windows.
They lean left, they lean right,
looking through gaps in the curtains.
Oink. Oink.
If they see me.
And they often do.
I smile and wave.
I feel obligated, and let them in.
They have wide nasty smiles.
Oink. Oink.
The show me the bible.
They ask for a drink of water and a cheese sandwich.
I hose down the backyard for them.
They roll in the mud.
When they leave, my couch stinks.
Oink. Oink.
When they’re gone,
I tell myself, never again.
And the next time they come,
I’m ready.
I have props.
Oink. Oink.
On the table, in full color,
is a meat cutting chart,
with a pork cookbook nearby.
I offer them a ham sandwich.
Oink. Oink.
Back fires.
They know about the choice cuts of meat.
They eat the ham sandwich.
They burp, and fart,
and leave me,
with pamphlets.
Oink. Oink. And one spare Oink.
They’ll be back.
They always are.
With their appetites and bibles.
So I bought a gun.
Real big bullets too.
Oink. Oink.
They came in the night.
While I slept.
Their hooves made marks in the carpet.
They took my gun.
They took my big bullets.
Oink. Oink. And double Oink.
I went to their homes.
One was made of straw.
The other I think was a canvas yurt.
Hard to tell.
I’m not into architecture.
Oink. Oink.
I burned Straw Pig’s house up while he slept.
I detonated plastic explosives in the yurt.
In both cases, the meat was ruined.
There was lots of smoke.
Dogs ate the remains.
Ha. Ha. Oink that.
Joe R. Lansdale is the author of over thirty novels, twenty short story collections, screenplays, comic scripts, essays and non-fiction. His most recent novel is Vanilla Ride from Knopf, part of his Hap and Leonard series. Others in the series are currently being reprinted by Vintage Books.
Joe R. Lansdale's novella, Bubba Ho-Tep, was the inspiration for Don Coscarelli's cult classic film, starring Bruce Campbell and Ossie Davis.
The Horror Zine's editor, Jeani Rector, has been a fan of Joe R. Lansdale's Edgar Award-winning book titled The Bottoms for many years. It is one of Jeani's favorite books of all time.
And now there is a new Lansdale book to rave about: The Best of Joe R. Lansdale! Lansdale’s favored themes run from zombies to vampire hunters to drive-in theaters, and his storytelling encompasses everything from gross-out horror to satire.
As soon as Amazon delivers her copy of The Best of Joe R. Lansdale, it will hold a place of honor in Jeani Rector's bookcase: the top shelf, of course. But not before it is well-read and well-loved first.
See a review for The Best of Joe R. Lansdale HERE
See all of Joe R. Lansdale's books HERE.
