#1
raised from abject poverty in 1933,
the birth of Achilles haunted the Nebraskan airwaves
like a fire you could see for miles, the smoke
rising effortlessly into the endless blue canvas
of sky. we all tell stories no one believes, but
the first time the jockey came into Pat’s
living room on the crackle-static with reports of Pearl Harbor,
we all grabbed beers and stood by the silo, watching
a crimson tide wash over our pretty lot; nine years
prior, we did likewise, with a wane sternness
filling Pa’s cheeks, as if some old cobbler
was fitting a round knob of cedar and shoe leather to
accentuate the fine lines that pooled at the chin:
we knew the debt wasn’t buggin him, nor
ma’s takin to burnin the chicken of late -
no, it was a little rhubarb colored babe
born of steam engines and muskets that
crawled in the crevices behind his eyes,
crying for iron and forge instead of breast and wine;
it was a prophecy fulfilled at inception, so we learnt:
the man himself walked in three walks and took himself
clear to the bay of san francisco to work on the
N JUDA and then down south, arizona
wrestlin rowdy indians into the driest land in the lower 48.
Pa didn’t much care for the newspapers no more,
and he emptied whole barrels of bourbon those first years,
his pensive frame tucked against the rickety porch
holding neat glasses that elijiah craig himself thirsted for
from the grave. he spoke harsher, faster,
more articulations to his words, and his hands
seemed to curl up and dry out like husks of corn
left in the sun.

Pa wiped his mouth and spat on the ground.
the sun got in his eyes, but he told me,
‘the little bastard comes out with a hammer
and .40 in each hand. well,
i had to work for all of mine.’
Last edited by hippieboy444 at Aug 24, 2014,
#2
Overall, I really, really dug this. If I had any comments to offer on improving it, it'd be to add some sort of breathers for the reader so that you can keep that very intense momentum rolling throughout the piece. It starts so very strongly, but it's hard as a viewer to keep that fervor going from line to line.

Super cool feeling.
OBEY THE MIGHTY SHITKICKER
#3
thanks for always checking out my pieces. i really appreciate your support and insights rooster. yeah, i may break this up a bit. it's definitely more americana than i tend to mess with!

and yo, you live in Madtown? i know a cute lady from Marshfield, you know that neck of the woods up there?

edit-
raised from abject poverty in 1933,
the birth of Achilles haunted the Nebraskan airwaves
like a fire you could see for miles, 
the thick smoke rising effortlessly 
into the endless blue canvas of sky. 
we all tell stories no one believes, and
the first time the jockey came into living room 
over the crackle-static with reports of Pearl Harbor,
we all grabbed beers and stood by the silo, 
watching a crimson tide wash over our pretty lot,
the crisp dusk air feeling weightier and less innocent;
eight years prior, we did likewise, with a wane sternness 
filling Pa’s cheeks, as if some dusty old cobbler
was fitting a round knob of cedar and shoe leather
beneath the cheekbones and sunken eyes,
as if to accentuate the fine lines that pooled at the chin:
we knew the debt wasn’t buggin him, nor 
ma’s takin to burnin the chicken of late - 
no, it was a little rhubarb colored babe
born of steam engines and muskets that 
crawled in the crevices behind his eyes,
crying for iron and forge instead of breast and wine;

it was a prophecy fulfilled at inception, so we learnt:
the man himself walked in three weeks and took himself
clear to the bay of san francisco, workin on the
N JUDA; and then, down south- Arizona
wrestlin rowdy indians into the deadest land in the lower 48.
Pa didn’t much care for the newspapers no more, 
and he emptied whole barrels of bourbon in those first years,
his pensive frame tucked against the rickety porch
holding neat glasses that elijiah craig himself thirsted for
from the grave. he spoke harsher, &faster,
more articulations chiselling away his words,
and his hands seemed to curl up 
and dry out like husks of corn
left in the sun.

Pa wiped his mouth and spat on the ground.
the sun got in his eyes, but he told me,
‘the little bastard comes out with a hammer
and .40 in each hand. well,
i had to work for all‘a mine.’
Last edited by hippieboy444 at Aug 24, 2014,
#4
I read the title and a line from a song came to mind (this one--have you heard it?). The song and your poem brought me a similar feeling, at least on the first read. But the second time through I noticed the wonderful descriptions in this one--
as if some old cobbler was fitting a round knob of cedar and shoe leather to accentuate the fine lines that pooled at the chin
and
his hands seemed to curl up and dry out like husks of corn left in the sun
in particular are things of beauty.


As for potential improvements, the lapses into dialect are a little rough, I felt, the contrast between that and the heightened language is sudden and a bit jarring. The voice is inconsistent. I'm not sure of the written dialect is actually necessary, I think the feeling you're trying to invoke with it is already present in the piece.
kill all humans