Grandpa

He was the junkyard king
Man, he had everything
His friends called em Red
He had a field, a house, a broken down shed

He was plenty tough
He only dealt in rough
His heart was made a glass
But, both his hands were made a the finest brass

He hates old cigars
He sat in rusty cars
He’d burn all his trash
He said that nuthin’ ever seems to last

I thought he hung the moon
He’d sing ole cowboy tunes
He always kept the law
And I’m just glad I got to call him paw

And when I said goodbye
He yelled, “We never die!
Build a hot air balloon!
So I can see you again real soon!”

He was a man a God
Said he was plenty flawed
I don’t believe it though
Cause when’d it ever seem to show?

Loved his wife and kids
He shut his “Old eyelids”
I know he loved me too
Loved me like the grass does love the dew

Then he rode his horse
Into the dusk of course
I want to be like him
So I sat straight down and wrote a hymn

I thought he hung the moon
Whistled ole cowboy tunes
He always kept the law
And I’m just glad he gets to see my mom … again!

Junkyard King

Junkyard

Slip through hubcaps, rotting newspapers
and week-old, putrid milk cartons. Hand to
withered hand, grasping and climbing atop
rust mountains; spilling and quaking. A bag
of bolts for trade to the hook-nosed, stealy
son of a bitch that calls this place castle.
Worth their weight in iron, the frames of dusty
Buicks sit stacked like sandwich bread.
Breaking Old # 7 bottles through windshields
just because we can. A crown made of spoked
cadillac rims slides past our eyes and burnt
rubber tire smell thick through our nose. I am
the junkyard king. You wanna test the title? Then
meet me by the mound of washing machine
engines that my grandfather would have made
into depression-era lawnmowers. Sifting and slicing
through broken glass menageries, bottle cap
daydreams bursting at the seams. Our hands get
thick with oil and we wonder what a single match
would do to a place like this. Burn it to the ground.
Then dance through the ashes. This is our
chapel. Our temple of reconciliation. God can be talked
into anything if you’ve got the goods to barter with him.
And it just so happens, that we do.