Nous of the Kentuckian

Photographer - Tobi Brun

NOUS OF THE KENTUCKIAN

I. TRIAL VERSIONS

It became a bankrupt summer solstice, lost in
the cool mystical horticulture of
Antietam at night. He could no longer
remember the rush of the market climbing,
cash pouring in, or private equity firms
buying him beer. Caterpillars spilled from
his mouth. It was himself confirmed, just as
he’d always imagined; deodorant caked on,
hair needing cutting, badly injured and
bleeding from a return to physical activity.
He addressed the crowd with the
melancholy of a four-year-old. “All work is
subject to examination.”
This was a week after jury duty.

II. A STATUE TO CALAMINE LOTION ON A NIGHT STAND

A furlong, four rods, and an oxgang
away from a sports bar,
there, outside the walmart was
a statue to the great day traders of
our century
There was grissom, van fleef, and
Mcgillicuddy (ferlinger and podanski were
left out, and for good reason), high above
the dashboard ephemera of a chevy cruze.
Nautical in nature, the honorees careened
Towards the cart return in
high waisted trousers,
a brochure on the teapot dome scandal in their
back pockets.
Two boys were picking pockets when The Real
nightmare began. it was ugly tennis for the
unordained. there were cheesesteaks for
sale nearby. Detached retinas flapped

In the wind.
Van fleef was supposed to be an important
part of the ceremony but came down
with shingles the week before. Grissom
appeared in affordable menswear, that
particularly gut punching aphrodisiac of
the 1980s american middle class.

III. THE ALOYSIUS STATE FORESTRY COMPETITION

For the Aloysius State Forestry Competition
we raised beards, and
drank beer from cans
with fish on the label
in a, sort of,
way to honor our fathers
and brothers and
grandfathers.
I signed my name at the registration table
and it looked like the stitching
on the back of jeans.
Everything seemed possible with the acquisition of
a better chainsaw.
A boy from our lodge with shotgun brass hair stood,
and announced that his family
never owned a brand new car
or took a vacation.
I dabbed engine oil from the corners of my lips
and jangled the change in my pocket.
By the time our competition began
we were all wearing nu-skin and
huffing Christian rock from a canister
on a splintered bench.
Our chainsaw was tuned in to the hum
Of girls with fake I.D.s
and older brothers with drug paraphernalia.
We were victors in our leisure.
A governor gave a speech.

“Congratulations to the new district champions.
May the cheers of this moment help overcome
the noise of rattling plastic in the decade old
Ford Rangers of your future!”
My skin was still wet
while we shook hands
and took photographs with
rich men
who promised a bright future
in the concentration industry.

IV. SPIKES INSTEAD OF CLEATS

Picture this:
1998 is coming to a close
and we are all planning
vacations to Myrtle beach.
NAFTA is still in its honeymoon
phase. The country has fully
transitioned to using the word
spikes instead of cleats
Most of the boys have Chipper Jones
haircuts. The branding for the McDonalds
Arch Deluxe looks like the cover of an
Ayn Rand novel. Several post office dialects
develop under the dayglo eternity of a 7-11
at midnight. All I can pick up is a debate about
the Jeep YJ being the end of civilization.
There are specters yet to come.
Up on the bluff, baseball stadium floodlights
shine like diamonds in a divorce settlement.
Junk mail sweats in the dishwasher steam.
The grocery store is a museum of the food
we ate. Congress lets out soon.
Anyway, Myrtle Beach won’t book itself. It’s
winter and the fake palm trees are wrapped
in plastic. I call my travel agent from a pay phone
used in a regional bank heist. I ask her if there are
any specials. She says only if I’m a member of Triple-A.
Then she cries.

This isn’t unusual for her.
She’s a swimmer with trophies.

J. Peter Progar is a Central Pennsylvania bureaucrat. His work has been accepted to the Bare Hill Review and published in the Journal of Digital Landscape Architecture and Hyphen Architecture Journal.