Skip to content

Good Words from Jimmy nil Fishhawk: what biscuits and gravy train is this?

It has taken a bit, but as promised Wednesdays are the day when I lift up other people’s Good (and Not So Good) Words, Images, Ideas, Dances, Videos, Audio Pieces (etc and so forth). This week I would like to shine a little loving light on Jimmy nil Fishhawk. I’ve known Jimmy for twenty one years. He is an accomplished writer and performance poet, chopping the cadence of a Poetry Slam with a bit of Fire and Brimstone preaching and tangled, tangential Southern storytelling. Due to time constraints, I won’t say anything more. Below you will find his biography, followed by his poem “what biscuits and gravy train is this?”

Enjoy!

Biography: Jimmy nil Fishhawk is a poet, writer, and unbelieving infidel from the swamplands of Florida who is currently doing his thing in and around the swamplands of Our Nation’s Capital. He was reared in a mainline Christian church but gave up on that stuff and got the atheist/agnostic/secular wagon a long time ago, choosing instead to devote his life to searching for spiritual fulfillment in the dirty ol’ dirt and circlin’ cycles of This World.

what biscuits and gravy train is this?

way to go nightmare man

gleaner in the fields of hope

fisher on the mullet bridge w/ shredded net

barbecue quartet, gullet talk

pork chop bible sauce

the True Christ for real, the Risen? or the Walking?

crawdad in puddle outside convenience store, drunk panhandling for water @ noon-thirty on a Thursday

fish on line feels fine in hand

empire retires to inspire the triers of all lessons

make me make me make me make me make me whole, like a bowl, a smooth shape wrapped around a hollow sacred hole

garfish hangs in silence wearing old bone armor of his fathers ad infinitum

slick rotten tongues of yeast curl in the pond of my guts, but

hear the pierced notes of these my hands and believe
!

fish on hook, fish in a sack, fish and frybread for those multitudes Out Back, oh croak at the gate for water, crustaceans, while we hoard and hunt with the sun

napalm death and phosphorescent breath, flying light for flesh to catch, tracer bullets pierce the burning chest and shred the breast of the soldier boy who died to pass the test, Yes! Now You Are a Man, and a Big, Brave, Strong, Hero one, at that
:

the Kingdom of Heaven and all those other pearls of nonsense

how will we all live together and not just collide and die?

or maybe that is the whole point…roll out
and
until the inevitable Wreck, just ride.

Post a Comment

Your email is never published nor shared. Required fields are marked *