Stray Writings


To live in West Virginia is beyond description, but I’ll sure as hell try.

The downtown, although historic, offers three colors and they are all shades of gray. The bricks look like they were put in the wrong place, the sidewalks are empty, but they don’t feel that they should be. At times, one finds “Stickman John”, a man with no money who lives in a semi truck cab. And he caries a stick. From what I can tell, he always has the same stick, but I suppose I can’t be certain of that. He is often haunting the sidewalks. One block to the northwest: the greyhound station where vaccuous eyes stare out of filthy windows while ash falls into coffee.

Then, the outpost of town with the absurd comfort of rural-urban sprawl. Lowes. Wal Mart. Another Wal Mart. Chick Fil A. A Movie theatre, a hidden Starbucks, a less than stellar used record store, a strip mall with half of it bearing the ominous sign “Social Security Administration”, a guitar store with a loitering Dr. Pepper machine.

I’ve seen a man of approximately 360 ilbs carry in a refrigerator on a dolly into the Democratic headquarters while wheezing and breathing with GREAT effort, dropping off the fridge in the back of the barren white office. The man sat down and I spied a tracheotomy and a beautiful mustache. He tried to talk to a child, but just clicked and put an Obama sticker on her and smiled and it was unbearably sweet.
West Virginia low income housing, nicknamed the “frat house” I live at the top of the stairs on the right. A nice enough kitchen, servicable fridge and working stove that’s actually getting used! (skillet meals, and oddly enough, more that the usual ammount of baked beans). Ash stains on the carpet. A Hulk Hogan poster on the far wall. Bob Dylan staring at him from the other wall, with the Beatles between them. A less than servicable couch in the living room to the right of the kitchen. The smallest and roundest coffee table known to man in the living room. Shitty digital TV receiver which gets more channels but goes out all the time. I watch a lot of pbs. Two cats (Titus and Runtcat-Catface), well kittens, run unneutered like mad banshees throughout the apartment. They aren’t allowed in my bedroom (due to their balls and that whole fear of spraying) or in the moldy bathroom, as they love to tear the shit out of the toilet paper and get wet and then spread wet kitty litter throughout the house. My room is big, but the brown, bland carpet is covered with an explosion of pop culture items-books, dvds, cds, magazines, crumpled up portions of the past sunday new york times, a few semi pornographic magazines, plastic cards I use to open my bedroom door because it doesn’t have a handle. Paxil and empty bottles of water. The books in my favor next to my bed. My black, rolling suitcase set up at the end of my bed to place my small fan on to cool me at night (when needed). The fan, along with my cell phone charger, are plugged into the ONLY outlet, which also happens to be a measly two pronged and poses challenges that are probably easily solved with a trip to one of the two wal marts, it remains the only source of power in the room. My TV and dvd player are out of luck. For now. There is one shelf, above, or I suppose on my radiator and I have books and dvds piled on top of there, haphazardly.

Kevin Crispin
What do you think is up to my right in the picture? A cob web? Probably a cob web. Or maybe it's my Beatles records on top of my air conditioner. It's certainly not fresh, new wainscoting.

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