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Out of action, losing traction,
I slid down South, a bad mistake.
Florida is flat, crawling with con men,
rattlesnakes, swamps, and tattooed
waitresses who call you “Sugar Britches.”
Shooting for Key West, got waylaid in Mayo,
Way down upon the Suwannee River,
A taint of a town (tain’t panhandle,
tain’t peninsula), impoverished
in more ways than one. No fun.
Met Loquacia at a juke joint call’d Phaz 2,
a concrete block shit hole
not far from the “Bo Gator Motel” where
I was staying – not clean, not well-lighted –
and my money was dwindling.
Loquacia was into iguanas, had them
inked all over her skin, crawling up
her back from butt crack to shoulder
blade and up over down betwixt her tits.
Just got one tat, the name of my dead son,
Thom, one letter from left to right
in the crotches between my fingers.
I open my hand and spread the span,
and poof! his name appears in Gothic.
Anyways, I spent my days scrounging,
hooked up, thanks to L, with this cat who claimed
to be from JA, Mo-Bay, but could have been
some South Carolina geechie for all I know,
but he paid me good to make a run.
Seems he supplied some squids
at the base up in Jacksonville.
2 kilos of what the geechie calls ganga
stowed in the trunk of my Chevy
in duffel bags. What could go wrong?
Long story short. I’m writing this
from the Duval County Jail. Loquacia
ain’t darkened the door. Silver lining,
my rap sheet ain’t that bad: shoplifting,
public drunkenness, simple possession.
Working with a public defender, an
idealistic Jewish girl named Rachel.
She asked me about the tats, and sort
of teared up, she did. Maybe she can get
me off – and by that I mean out of jail.
Anyways, here I sit, way
out of action, with absolutely no
traction. a semi-literate Oscar Wilde,
waiting for my upcoming trial
where I’ll sing like Joan Baez.