Frida Kahlo

 

Meeting folks

I met these folks from the television show Pitbulls And Parolees a while back. Good people doing good things.

Joan Jett's Guitar

Willie Nelson's Guitar

Maggie

I ran into Maggie on 43rd Street today.

We were both headed down the same

hot endless sidewalk that seems to be everywhere

in Gainesville this time of year.

White cotton clouds drifted above

as the sun cooked everything below.

“Hey Jason,” She said with a smile. “Long time no see.”

“For sure,” I replied.

I watched her smile fade and her eyes grow a little more serious.

“I’m sorry about Ellis. I know you two were close.”

Ellis Amburn’s smiling face raced through my mind. “Yeah, I’ll miss him.”

“His stories of the times he spent with Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg,

Susan Sontag, Anais Nin, Edie Sedgwick,

and so many more were incredible to hear.”

“I bet,” Maggie said.

“Most of all I’ll miss his friendship.”

“I know you will.”

We began to walk.

She glanced at my journal.

It was cradled in my left hand.

With each step it swung like a pendulum by my side.

“What have you been working on recently?” she said.

“I’m trying to put something together about the past.”

Her brow lifted. “Your past?”

“Like a poem or something?” her eyes now widened.

I sighed. “Yeah something like that.”

Maggie smiled. “I’ve always liked the way you see the world.”

“Through the eyes of a poet I guess?” I said.

“Jason you’re more than a poet. I’ve never liked the title poet for you anyways.

You’re more in the thick of it.

You give us the scraped knees and blackened eyes of the world.”

I chuckled a little. “So true my friend.”

Maggie stopped and turned toward me. “Remember Bob?”

“Irish Bob?” I said. “How could I forget?”

“What was wrong with that guy?” Maggie laughed.

“What was right with him? Is the better question,” I said.

“Remember the stories of Bob shooting rats

with his pistol behind the pub downtown?” Maggie said.

“I remember. I’ve heard the stories of Irish Bob

and seen the stories in real time,” I said.

“Being a Seal in Vietnam kinda made Bob a little off.

But hey, a little off isn’t all bad.”

“Remember that time the two brothers and you

got their jeep stuck on the train tracks?”

“Yeah Maggie Girl, I remember. It was freezing that night.

We slept by the tracks till morning. It was miserable.

I woke up and walked to

a friend’s house to get help to push us off

before the 8 am train came through.”

Maggie glanced my way. “Yeah, that would’ve been bad.”

“Remember that late seventy’s Vega

With a 350 motor stuffed inside?” she said.

“I remember that beast. At 110 mph the car felt like

it was floating. It had no seatbelts but that

didn’t matter much at those speeds.”

We walked a bit more. The humidity turned the air into a blanket of moist hell.

Cicadas called loudly all around us like an insect orchestra begging for rain.  

Maggie pulled out her phone and checked the temperature, “97 degrees so far.”

Putting her phone away she asked, “Remember when you were grazed by a bullet?”

“I do. It went right across my left hip. A little trickle of blood stained my shirt.”

Maggie slid a cigarette from her pack.

She flamed its end.

“Jason, you remember the Gainesville Mall?

That was the first place I saw an escalator.

I would always jump onto the first step and off the last.

I was sure that thing would suck me under.”

“That’s funny. I thought the same thing.”

Maggie’s voice climbed in volume as she reminisced some more.

“It seemed every time we went to the mall

there were rumors that Tom Petty

had been seen walking around the same hallways that day.”

I laughed, “Yeah, I remember.”

“Remember all the good times at The Jonesville Ramp?

I can’t believe it was in your back yard.”

“Believe it, Maggie Girl. I rode with the best back then.

They were real pioneers in the world of skateboarding.

Mike Frazier, Sam and Donny Myhre, Monty Nolder, Billy Rohan,

Buck Smith, Chris Baucom, and many more,” I said thinking of all the folks I’ve

skated with over the last thirty something years.”

“Jason, wasn’t a movie filmed there that had Tony Hawk in it?”

“Yes, it was. Mike Frazier’s part in Powell Peralta Eight

was filmed at my home on the Jonesville Ramp.

Tony Hawk also has a part later in the film.”

We approached Archer Road.

Maggie pulled hard on her smoke.

Its end glowed bright even in the sunlight of midday.

She exhaled, “Remember the Hang On Sloopy guy?”

“I do. Bobby Peterson. He played with The McCoys.”

“That song was their big hit in the 1960s,” I said.

She punched out her cigarette then placed its butt

in her back pocket.

She then turned toward

me wearing a half smile, “I hate litter.”

“Me too, Maggie girl.”

We walked a few more blocks. Maggie was quiet for a bit.

Then spoke as we were almost at the intersection, “Remember Harry Crews?”

“Yes, my friend. I’ll never forget that day!”

We came to the end of the sidewalk. 

“This is my stop,” I said.

“I’ve got to pick up my truck from the mechanic.”

“Yeah, I’ve got to get back to work.” She smiled.

“Take care of yourself, Maggie.”

“You do the same.”

She turned and walked off into the blazing afternoon.

Broke Disc Blues

Loretta

Behind The Axe

My father

Gave me my first axe

When I was 8 years of age

39 years later

It’s my go to tool

I’ve honed my skills behind the axe

And

Honed its blade!!!

Its weight

Its length

Its handle

Which soaks in my sweat

And

Sometimes my blood

Becomes a part of me

And me of it!!!

A symphony of

Cutting, slicing, and chopping

Me, the conductor

It, the instrument

The Axe and Cutting Mattock

Have been in my hands

My father’s hands

His father’s hands

His father’s, father’s hands

So on and so forth

All the way back to Ireland, Scotland, and Wales

Back to Scandinavia and The Vikings

The axe is deeply rooted in my blood

My DNA

Everything that is me

When it comes to working outdoors

One day

When I’m old

And my hands too feeble

Too crippled

To hold my axe

I’ll look back on the lands I’ve shaped

The dirt I’ve churned

The trees I’ve fallen

And remember

My days

Behind the axe

Open Letter to Brandon Graham

Time slips by or maybe

I’m slipping as time goes by me?

Not every day is a drag

But it seems the ones

That involve passing by the TV

When the news is on

Can really bring me down

I’d much rather walk outside

Stroll down the path with my friends of the woods

Like a raccoon named Sugar

She’s so large

So big

I believe from

Eating out of the ice cream store’s dumpster

Down the street from my home

She waddles from the weeds and peers at me with

Dark curious eyes

Then slowly makes her way back into the brush

There’s also a deer I’ve named Brownie

Her husband Buck Owens and their child Jane Fawn-Da

Also come to say hello

A turkey named Loner

For

He is always alone

And a rabbit named Tag

For

It runs to me then back away

Then back to me then away it runs

They all seem to be so much more entertaining

Than anything on the tube…

And Brandon

I still wonder how your writing is going from time to time?

I wonder about all of my friends

Who practice the craft of words

Along with my own thoughts of what next to write?

Lizzy Worth is still doing her thing above us

In that far away land called Canada

I’m sure she still scribbles words

Her cat Plumb

Most likely meowing in circles around her

As she pulls words from the air like magic

And arranges them on paper

Illian Rain is up there too

Her cat’s named Leroy

I’m sure he meows

I’m just not sure how much it affects her writing

Whatever the case

Illian and Lizzy are such strong voices

From the land of Canada

And Brandon

I still talk to Lizzie Woodham from across the sea

Emailing words through wires way over there

She’s patient with me and my questions

About her writing

About the places and things that make up Europe

From Scottish Snow Flakes

To

The Irish Sea

To

The smells and sounds of the streets of Soho

But most of all she listens to me and my wandering mind

What a friend I have in her!!!

And Brandon

Mallory Smart is still out there somewhere

The windy city I believe

Or maybe the city of wind?

She loves coffee, you know?

She writes and publishes

Publishes and writes

Words swirl around her mind

Like a cyclone

At least that’s what I believe they do!

When I met Mallory

Another person that loves “The Beats”

It gave me hope for the future

And Brandon

I still think of your encounter with Burroughs

It still makes me smile

And Brandon

I still wonder if we, us, and our friends in writing

Will ever have a name associated with our work?

With our lives?

Like “The Beats” or “The Lost Generation”

I’ve pondered this question for years?

So, I will now take it upon myself to name us

“The Holding Generation”

There! I’ve coined it!!!

For

I feel we are holding onto hope

Holding onto anything

That tomorrow will be better than today

That moms and dads will be able to hold

Their children after a day at school

That the kids will carry books

Instead of bulletproof jackets

Holding onto the thought

That maybe just maybe

People will stop killing each other

Holding onto the idea that society

Will somehow someway get their act together…

But most of all

Holding on

While we continue to write and create art

That’s all I can do anymore

Brody Dalle

Riverview

Between Belbedere and Clyed

The last days of his youth

Were coming to an end

He was born into a world of hard labor

The plow, the axe, and the crosscut saw

Were the tools by which

His family carved out a living

They migrated wherever

The next income could be made

From

The North Florida farmlands of Hilliard

To the snake-infested waterways

Of the Okefenokee Swamp

Cutting timber and growing crops

Were their way of life

Yet

Life was also lived

On the mean streets of North Jacksonville

Riverview

Was where you went

When all other options were gone

His father grew up on these

Same streets delivering turpentine

From the forest surrounding the city

At the age of 14 in 1906

He would gear up mules

And make the journey alone

On a wagon

His overalls stained with sticky pinesap

With tobacco

With sweat

With dirt! 

Now his son

Was following his father’s footsteps

Yet

Work was not all that thrived in Riverview!

On the north side

When the sun went down

With his hair slicked back

And

His blue eyes sparkling in the streetlights

This young man

Would slip into the night

With his brothers and friends   

Going from honky tonks to juke joints

Anywhere a good time could be had!

Because

When you were a child of The Great Depression

And

Had seen times so hard

Your parents boiled the seed

For planting that year’s crop

To feed your brothers and sister

To feed you!

Any happiness even if through recklessness

Was excepted

But 

His way of living

On the edge of existences   

Was drifting away

Drifting toward a domestic life

Of a father

Of my father

And

On a Sunday afternoon in 1952

One last ride was taken

He and his Harley 74

With its

Suicide shift jutting upwards

Its 1200 CC motor winding out

The wind stinging his face

As he blasted through

Florida’s highway heat waves, and humidity

He hit the Main Street Bridge

On the north side of the city

At 100mph

Crossing over

From one life to another

From Harleys to house mortgages

From ‘42 Ford coupes

To station wagons

He would raise his kids

With only stories of the life he left behind

But the promise

That our lives

Would be better than the one he had lived!

The sun set on his wild ways

But rose every day for us

In the figure of our father!

Now

His 82-year-old hands wrinkled and scared

Point here and there in the horizon

Telling me stories

About the places and people

That once were alive!

Yet he can’t find any trace

Of the world that surrounded his childhood

But the world he created for us will live on

For generations to come

All made by a man who was born into nothing

But was able to give us everything  

Harry Crews 9/10/10

                                Photo ©Jason E. Hodges

Labels

“Labels are safe words for society” Jason E. Hodges

Kick Start

Rock Climbing

Amanda Palmer

Dear Amanda

I dig you!

I’m so happy

You’re not like the rest

I pass on the street!

Each block holds

A thousand people’s dreams

Resting in the city’s insides

Trapped forever

In its hopeless heartbeat

Yet

I see your spirit shouting skyward

Upward and outward

Gently nudging artists of the world

To keep pushing and creating!

I say to the artist

The poets

The writers

The musicians

Reach in and find yourself

Your work

Your voice

Deserves to be heard

Find your tribe in life

And

If you can’t find it

Make your own

Look inside

Pry inside your soul

With the claws life has given you

Find yourself, it’s worth finding!

Oh Amanda

Humanity has a habit

Of

Smothering humans with rules

Of uniformity

Of color-coded sheep fleeces

And

Dress codes for the masses

Of geographical beliefs

That their world is right

And

All others are wrong

Of conduct constructed completely

With agendas and genders in mind

Yet

Between the rules and regulations

Of life there is the voice of the artist

Like you

Like Kathleen Hanna

Like Ian Mackaye

Giving the rest of us hope

Like stars a sailor sets sail to

In the darkness

Not knowing if he will see land

In the sunrise of tomorrow

Or

The dark clouds of a hurricane

The youth puts faith in the ones

Who has come before them

Not knowing what’s in

The next day’s sunrise

But having your words and songs

To weather whatever the storm

Falling Banjo Punk Blues

Slacklining

Flip Trick

Shieldmaiden