Growing Up In West Dallas

Travis Blair

Summer afternoons when I was thirteen
I'd sit on a patch of grass
beneath an open window
outside my daddy's West Dallas honky tonk.

Too young to sit inside and play the jukebox
or join daddy eating pickled eggs at the bar
I'd shoot marbles with my brother
or fling those little barbed grass spears
at alley cats
running into the old city cemetery next door

—not your average graveyard
with the Barrows brothers buried there
riddled full of bullet holes
from their Bonnie and Clyde days—

Some afternoons
we'd sit in daddy's pink Lincoln Continental
watch the hookers and whores strut
up and down Fort Worth Avenue

see them climb into cars and park
near the rear of the cemetery
where they'd go down on Johns
or straddle them and fuck for fifty dollars.

Some evenings when the sun set
all hazy red and diesel grey
the girls strutted over and leaned
into daddy's big old pink land yacht
chewing gum and blowing bubbles
smelling like cum
making my brother and me
feel all hot and grown up

until daddy hollered through the window
for them to come inside and get on stage
(I guess that's where my affection
for strippers and whores began)

—Last Sunday I drove by
daddy's old honky tonk
-now a used car lot
painted rust red and selling Chevys—

I got out and walked through the old cemetery.
Gone are Buck and Clyde's tombstones
(stolen by some thrill seekers)
Gone are the hookers and strippers.
Gone is daddy
sitting inside the window
cracking pickled egg shells.

But I can still remember
the music on the jukebox
the smell of cum on breath
and the alley cats
running through the graveyard.

Jesus, John the Baptist & Janis Joplin

Travis Blair

This poem begins with Jesus
when I was John the Baptist
and Janis Joplin sang the blues
in the backseat of our car
—a Caddy El Dorado
bought in Del Rio, Texas with
money raised in collection plates
preaching the Gospel
along the I-35 Corridor.

I first met Jesus in '63
when I was a wide-eyed teen
hanging out in Mexico
with tinsel town movie stars
doing my thing on the jungled set
of Tennessee's Night of the Iguana.
A pretty senorita said let me
introduce you to my friend
and the three of us went for a swim
in the baptismal waters south
of the Rio Grande.

We took to the road saving souls
of a Cold War generation
me slinging fire and brimstone
from a portable pine-carved pulpit
while Jesus healed the people
and a choir of Angelinos chanted
hymns in 3-part harmony.

Evangelizing Texas
Jesus riding shotgun in the car
eventually the road led to Austin
and the storied burnt orange campus
of The Great University where
beneath the shade of a red oak tree
sat the daughter of Port Arthur
a blues singing junkie glitter queen
sipping Southern Comfort from a flask
cackling when she laughed
beaded, bangled, and befeathered
but man that bitch could sing.

That marked the end
of me preaching the Gospel.
I wanted to be the star
of our traveling medicine show
so I changed my sermons
to protest the Viet Nam War
the lynching of Southern black men—
topics I had more passion for
than sinners going to hell
if they didn't give up whiskey
and fucking honky tonk women
or dancing the dirty bop
while singing the Rolling Stones.

Before I knew what hit us
the love offerings quit us
collection plates went drier
than sun-parched Texas dirt.
I grew my hair long like Jesus
stopped shaving my beard
took up smoking dope with Janis
sang psychedelic songs
like Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
with John, Paul, George, and Ringo.

I swapped my genuine leather-covered
red-letter Scofield Study Bible
for the Tibetan Book of the Dead
dropped a dozen hits of window-pane
while Jesus sadly shook his head
joined the Peace Corps
disappeared somewhere
deep into Mexico.

On a sad October morning
Janis ODed on heroin
while drinking Southern Comfort
at the Hollywood Holiday Inn.
The four fop-topped Beatles split
went their separate ways
and I don't remember much

about the next 10 years
of cocaine and Quaalude haze
Colombian red bud and blue Valium
black mollies and white crosses
hash pipes and water bongs
peace signs and protest marches
assassinations and love-ins
braless women in a sexual revolution
and more threesomes in one bed
than any man should survive.

Somewhere along the way
I woke up married with two kids

three big dogs, a 9-to-5 job
a mortgage payment
two-weeks-vacation

and enough frequent flyer miles

to lose myself anywhere—
but with a nagging fear

I'd missed out on my mission.

So I went back to Mexico
where the trip began
down to Mismaloya and Vallarta.
One night while walking
on a secluded moonlit beach
with my nostalgia
I ran into Jesus again.

He said Hello my friend.
What brings you back
to God's country?

I said in a voice sad with regret
that I'd like to start over again.
Give me a mission or better yet
someone who needs a hand
a soul down and out of faith
in need of something to believe in
or someone to believe in him.

Jesus laughed, rolled his eyes
said ok, but listen friend
I won’t make it easy
or solve messes you create
but when you least expect it
I'll send someone your way.
I’ll let you make a difference
in the life of some lost soul.

It's a deal, I answered
I think I understand.
I doubt it, Jesus laughed
as he walked away barefoot
leaving no footprints
in the sand.

Since that night I wish I could say
life's been an easy ride
but the truth is different.
Gone are the days of pride and glory.
I pay consequences
for all the choices I've made.
Yet from time to time
it seems worthwhile
when I come across a broken soul
and offer him my hand
pick him up with a smile
and a glimpse into my faith
show him something to believe in
before he walks away.

Mostly I sit around
broke, writing poems,
sending out resumes
but my phone never rings
and I remember better days
when I was John the Baptist
Jesus rode shotgun in my car
Janis Joplin sang the blues
life was an endless ride
on a shooting star

and just to keep me honest
every once in a while
I write a poem about Jesus.