1. The butcher cooks corn in gobs of hot bacon fat exploded my eyes an American obsession pig bodies crisped brown kernels flesh worship meat worship pig worship on Sundays across the plains of America what happens to a nine year old boy who kills a buck with a rifle in autumn a nine year old boy dressed in army camo from Walmart his first kill does a nine year old boy wear that blood taught guns taught death taught removing the buck's skin taught draining the blood given a sharp sturdy knife did the boy prop the buck on its back did the boy place two large rocks under the buck’s shoulders and two large rocks under the buck's hips did the boy slit the buck's skin and peel it back did the boy worship Meat Jesus red blood boy red blood American red blood America bleeding out black tongues thrust did the boy eat the buck's eyes to see Meat Jesus did the boy eat the buck's heart did the boy eat the heart mouth body is the buck the meat are the buck’s eyes the meat is the buck's heart exploded his uneaten wasted heart is the nine year old boy the butcher the proud father or the flung raw heart are the boy’s fingers bullets is meat easier now is killing easier now is praise everlasting in the boy's plastic brain
Yes. As Beth said- it can be a part of a culture and it is here. In a million years I would never have thought I'd marry a hunter. Not me, the old hippie vegetarian. Yet here we are and yes, my first grandson has killed several deer, his brother not interested at all. If I had a say in the matter...
Well, I'd be a hypocrite because I do eat meat and yes, love the pig the most.
I love your honesty, Rebecca. I love your word-pictures, the way you can slash the paint across the canvas of the page and the way you can turn the face into the mirror into a living being, the way you can hold gently and then turn the palm and crush. This is your life-force. This is your purpose.
I just remember that poor deer hanging upside down in my garage his black tongue. Not my father but the abuser. I wasn't prepared for it and I never got over it.
And I remember the first deer I ever saw hanging. It was behind a butcher's in Denver. I was not prepared for that either. Glen is very, very good about making sure that I do not see any of the processing of his deer. I'd have to go out of my way to do it. Which of course I do not.
My father hung the annual deer from the rafters in the garage and the kids on the school bus could see it. They thought we were gross because we ate an animal my father killed and they ate a piece of meat under cellophane from the Super Duper grocery store. Gun culture at my house but not macho. A different time...
This, I waited to read, after having read the open sore blister fanged-tooth biter of a first line. I waited until I was ready to hear this. It is amazing, as always, but it is something more, too. I can't say exactly what I mean by "more," so I won't linger over it. I especially love the second part. You are everything, everything there is. And more. I guess that's what I meant by "more." I love you, Rebecca the Lesser.
Yes. As Beth said- it can be a part of a culture and it is here. In a million years I would never have thought I'd marry a hunter. Not me, the old hippie vegetarian. Yet here we are and yes, my first grandson has killed several deer, his brother not interested at all. If I had a say in the matter...
Well, I'd be a hypocrite because I do eat meat and yes, love the pig the most.
I love your honesty, Rebecca. I love your word-pictures, the way you can slash the paint across the canvas of the page and the way you can turn the face into the mirror into a living being, the way you can hold gently and then turn the palm and crush. This is your life-force. This is your purpose.
I just remember that poor deer hanging upside down in my garage his black tongue. Not my father but the abuser. I wasn't prepared for it and I never got over it.
And I remember the first deer I ever saw hanging. It was behind a butcher's in Denver. I was not prepared for that either. Glen is very, very good about making sure that I do not see any of the processing of his deer. I'd have to go out of my way to do it. Which of course I do not.
My father hung the annual deer from the rafters in the garage and the kids on the school bus could see it. They thought we were gross because we ate an animal my father killed and they ate a piece of meat under cellophane from the Super Duper grocery store. Gun culture at my house but not macho. A different time...
so delighted to see your writing.
love you Coyote.
This, I waited to read, after having read the open sore blister fanged-tooth biter of a first line. I waited until I was ready to hear this. It is amazing, as always, but it is something more, too. I can't say exactly what I mean by "more," so I won't linger over it. I especially love the second part. You are everything, everything there is. And more. I guess that's what I meant by "more." I love you, Rebecca the Lesser.