Free Bad Country: A Novel by CB McKenzie Page A

Queensr ÿ che, Bela Fleck, Sergio Mendoza, 2 Live Crew, Monkey Arte, Acoustic Alchemy, Tech N9ne, Lucinda Williams, Animal Collective, The Robert Cray Band, David Sedaris, Slammin’ Poetry, Tucson Poetry Festival, Dark Star Orchestra, Squirrel Nut Zippers, Raúl Malo, Ken Nordine, Missy Higgins, Japonize Monkey, Morrissey, John Legend, New Found Legend, Styxnaseua, Old Timey Times, The Way Back Machine, Madansky Folk Ensemble, Franz Ferdinand, Three Red Neck Tenors, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Nicky Cruz, Badfish, Craig Ferguson, Ice Cube, Lamb of God, Indigenous, Authority Zero, Los Lobos, Wilco, Atmosphere, The Fucking Kennies, The Breeders, The Whistlers, The Wrongs, The Hives, The Faint, The Fainters, The Zombies, The Dead, A Live and Calexico.
    In Samuel’s closet was one set of neatly pressed pleated khakis and one long-sleeved, button-down baby blue dress shirt scarcely worn and many hooded sweatshirts that promoted colleges or professional sports teams—Pima Community College, La Universidad de Arizona, Phoenix Cardinals, Arizona Diamondbacks, Colorado Rockies, Chicago White Sox, The Tucson Javelinas, Gila Monsters, Mavericks, Sidewinders, Scorch, Heat and IceCats and one sweatshirt that had airbrushed on the chest R OSESMOKE .
    Under the bed was nothing but a roach clip on a leather thong tied to a fragment of a hawk’s feather. Between the mattress and box springs were two abused pornographic magazines, one gay and one straight. And a small spiral notebook filled with poems, a whole bookful of poems. Rodeo flipped through all the poems and read several of the shorter ones.
    Rose Haiku
         Pink hair is the prettiest,
                    Unlike the man-stink,
         Because it’s not natural.
         I’m supposed to be guilt-free
                    After a guilt sweat.
         I love your pink hair the best.
         The tattoos that reach around
                    Your wrists are etchings
         Not even God could dream up.
         I miss my little sister.
                    You know how to make
         Her come back to life with words.
    Walking to the Palace
         It’s always night
         When I’m walking
         To the Palace to collect
         The Bitchwitch is only her empty winnings
         And heavy breath from
         Christian Brothers.
         Part cross, part hammer, all death
         Knell, life
         Sentence.
         Whatever
         Birds of prey dream
         Of devouring in the brush,
         Split and bloody,
         Holds no candle
         To what I’ll do
         To the BitchWitch is only her bones.
         Once I burn her flesh
         Clean off, I might let her
         Breathe my smoke
         A few hours more
         Before I kiss her goodnight
         With a straight razor
         And cup of bleach.
         Then, I’ll grind her bones
         And snort them. To complete
         The exorcism,
         Performed with the last of her
         Christian Brothers, her only family left,
         I’ll make fire leap
         From my mouth so my face
         May be burned clean
         Of any resemblance
         Of her, even in the dark.
    I am Smoke
         I am smoke
                and you’re a cloud
                      and we float
         through each other
                and trade colors
                      become each other
         and now you’re good
                and now I’m bad again
                      and gray is roseate
         and black is white
                and wet is dry
                      and earth is sky
         where the MIA
                are all at home
    Folded into this book of chirographic poetry was a copy of Farrah Katherine Rocha’s obituary. The