Post Enolas


The mid-south was usually about ten years behind the pop culture curve back then. Woodstock with its after blast pop fall out Enola Gay Easter Eggs was in the near future. We didn't know that the West Coast Summer of love was falling apart,was a decadent, subversive experiment engineered and sponsored by an intelligence branch of the Big Fed that fed upon us all.We were new to the world, to the game and we were here to play. Propaganda jargon was the universal brainwash tool of ruling cabals. Twisted government programs to saturate young developing minds with brain altering chemicals. We lived through this.
The Bay of Pigs, JFK assasination. LBJ and The Great Society, Timothy Leary, Nam, Cambodia, Kent State, Tricky Dicky. I am not a crook. Dr. Strangelove bombs a western movie set.. It goes on and on, never stopping the chaos backbeat. Today is a pervasive digital synthesis of all that went before.

{Kids from broken homes, but I didn't get them broken bones, not physical ones at any rate.}
Steven by his own account came from a The Walton’s small southern town background yet for whatever impenetrable reasons was to become an artist-outlaw as extreme as could be managed on available resources. Indian Joseph was born under punches. His father Benito was an Air Force man who cursed at the family black and white tv set as he watched network news coverage of The Bay Of Pigs operation, a bitter haunted short hispanic man with a Napoleon complex, provided plenty of catalyst to add to Joseph’s teenage rebellious angst.
(Flashbulb cutouts, Joseph, then Joey is maybe 5 or 500 years old, instincts for survival are waking up. The Bay Of Pigs Rant by Benito echoing premonition of apocalypse. The next day Joey puts on the little suit and bow-tie he wore for a family photograph. He walks to the door, opens it. His mother Anais says, “Joey, where are you going honey.”
Joey: I’m leaving Mother, I’m running away from home. I am not afraid, the world is waiting for me.
Anais: Don’t go too far Honey, try to be home in time for lunch.
Joey, walking down a dusty Laredo Texas road bordering Lackland Air Force Base. Tumble weeds roll by like stop action animation, black and white film. Silent cardboard cutout Gila Monster sunning itself on a flat rock stares with slitted eyes into a point somewhere on the dead still horizon. Pinwheel cloudless billboards covering a Texas sky. After an hour or so of this initial flight in defense of individual freedom and survival with a knick knack paddy wack like a complete unknown this old child turns around to go back to a home that is always fragment, never really ideal. It is a cauldron of ideas, a crucible, symbol, crucifix. Now is a moment. The future a race of wheels forever running in place against an awful friction that burns through angsty bones.





Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Written on 2026-07-15 at 15:42

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