THE DEEP SOUTH-

Psychopath is not a psychological term.

The closest in the Diagnostic manual of psychological disorders (DSM IV) is anti-social personality disorder.

301.7 Dissocial (Antisocial) Personality Disorder

Personality disorder, usually coming to attention because of a gross disparity between behavior and the prevailing social norms, and characterized by at least 3 of the following:
a. callous unconcern for the feelings of others;
b. gross and persistent attitude of irresponsibility and disregard for social norms, rules and obligations;

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NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE-

A birthday is a miserable God-forsaken thing unless you are seven years old with red velvet cake and a Slip and Slide.

I turned seven once, with red velvet cake and a Slip and Slide and I told my mother I wanted nothing at the party but girls and I am sure she felt I would either grow up to be a flaming homosexual or a whoremonger.

My birthday came around, a lazy overcast day with lots of young ladies from school, Katie Collie with her hair in pigtails, Sherri Murphy and Hott Bridgette Brock, Rebecca Anne Denny and some of their girlfriends even and then some boy cousins and a few neighbor guys showed up and my mother let Donald Aspern, a completely loud and irritating boy who stood too close when he talked, cut the cake.

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THE DEEP SOUTH-

It’s nearly midnight on Island Drive

lights in the trees

and all of heaven waits for me to breathe

standing on the pedals and coasting line to line

I am chased by the ghosts

the ghosts of Jesus and Evel Knievel

of cutter girls in Underdog pants

strobe lights and cotton candy

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THE DEEP SOUTH-

This is a time of hope

for something greater than ourselves

to save ourselves

from ourselves

a time of dreams and dying

and dreams dying

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THE DEEP SOUTH-

“What the message is?” the lisping girl of fifteen asks and I am caught off guard. Sure she’s one of the overachievers, church girl, cheerleader, choir singer, already having aced the ACT and well on her way to anxiety and eating disorders but still - shouldn’t teenage girls be worried about acne and boys?

“The message, I guess, is it is not good
to get what you want all the time. For no one to ever tell you no. To
be surrounded by people who want to please you badly enough that they
never tell you anything you do not want to hear.”

“I don’t know,” I reply.

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THE DEEP SOUTH-

What is life but the moments

the haunting slivers of time

free from some abstract tomorrow or

glossed-out yesterday

the aching gravity of sadness and

all

that will never be and never be again

torn between here and there, the perceived difference

between existence and living

the contagious monoxide of oppression

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loadedlikeafreightrain….

THE DEEP SOUTH- shoutsshoutshoutatthedevil!

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THE DEEP SOUTH-

10:10 pm

Fox’s Donut Den

Every good day begins and ends at the Donut Den. My music row buddy Bodi is here.

“Look at this,” he says clicking a clip on his iPod.

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THE DEEP SOUTH-

In Part One I recollected a day of pop culture musings in Music City, of Marilyn Manson Megachurches and a Britney/Conway Twitty remix of Gimme More. If Con Funk Shun had recorded Mr. Brownstone and The Cure did Smells Like Teen Spirit. The post was awhile back. You can read it here , if you’d like to catch up on the early hours…

5:45 p.m.

COUNTRY MUSIC HALL OF FAME

A gangly girl with her hair up and a pencil in the bun stops me in the hall. “Hey you’re a music guy, right?”

“Can you find someone in this town who isn’t?”

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THE DEEP SOUTH-

It’s the start of a new year and time to get reflective, to ponder all that has been and hopefully will be, to bury the dead and birth the new, to get back on track, get it together and go forth. For fresh starts and resurrections.

Here’s a few collected thoughts on things I’d like to improve upon this year, reflecting upon Shapiro’s Ecclesiastes, Mitchell’s Tao and Watterson’s Hobbes.

To make no apologies for who I am.

Never tell a secret.

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THE DEEP SOUTH-

 12:30 p.m. Fox’s Donut Den. Whole Wheat Cranberry Muffins, low-fat chocolate milk.

“Would you like some eye crust with that bear claw ma’am? Grief, you just woke up didn’t you?”

“Mm.”

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THE DEEP SOUTH-

I buzz through the last of the metal doors and pull at the handle of the side cell. There’s a gaunt man strapped in the restraint chair at his wrists and ankles, a thick leather band wrapped around his chest. He’s wearing a lime green jumpsuit and blue paper shoes, his hair white at the roots and sprouting about in wild shocks.

“Mr. Banks,” I greet him, my voice echoing around the tiny cell, the room smelling of battery acid and sour sweat.

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THE DEEP SOUTH-

“You’ll love it,” said Simi so we went.

Past all the hand scribbled signs warning “NO EYE CONTACT” into the bowels of the dank dark building, crumbling brownstone and scrub buckets of dry ice strewn across checkerboard floors.

The freight elevator appeared through the fog, its iron maw gasping with a great and clanging racket to receive.

“Love it,” I sighed.

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THE DEEP SOUTH-

a couple of weeks back Eric Spitznagel wrote a lovely ode to the frustrations of the punctuation - perhaps my favorite post of the year. In the frou frah that is sometimes TNB it got a bit lost. Please go back and reference it either pre or post the reading of my own little post which it inspired…

To hell with commas

you little coma

you killer of spark and stride

Know thee not that thou art

the devil’s tail?

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THE DEEP SOUTH-

“Are we to fall upon one or two unhappy people in their weakest moments and force a sort of religious coercion?” - Dietrich Boenhoffer

Our leader was Big Head Todd, because, well - his head was as big as a peach basket, bobbing over his shoulders as he powerwalked the avenue in the post-Christmas chill, still sweating big rings at the armpits and collar of his stiff button-down shirt.

“Remember guys, Jesus,” he said.

“Jesus,” we mumbled.

There was this kind of scruff little fellow in an army jacket standing at the corner stop with his hair tucked behind his ears smoking a cigarette. We made quick eye contact that telepathed our thoughts: “This guy looks lost enough…”

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