Hoehandle and Featherlegs

Hoehandle : How did you sleep last night?

Featherlegs : Had weird dreams. Like teklacolor night mares.

HH: How so?

FL : Must have been them hot dogs I guess. Some of them had me back in Bible times, Sadam and Gaborrah stuff. End of the world but a long time ago.

HH: What were you doing back then?

FL: Farmer I think. I was a riding on a donkey and dressed like Moses in the Ten Comanderments. Big rocks were falling from the sky and people were going bat shit.  I was running that little donkey as fast as he could trot.

HH : Maybe the judgement of God happening.

FL : Yeah, sure. I remember all kinds of weird sex and lesbodizms everywhere.

HH : Better lay off those hot dogs then.

FL : Already throwed them away.

HH : Of course it may not be in those hot dogs. It could be the Curse of Texas Jack coming again to bite your sorry ass.

FL : Oh shit I forgot. I wish you would have said that before I tossed the dogs. Those were Farmer John’s for Christ sakes. Texas Jack, Jesus that brings back some memories.

HH : Good ones?

FL : Screw you, you old bastard.

The boys stay silent for a while thinking.

FL : There was big rains every day back then. There was what, six or seven us shivering up on that wash back then.

HH: More than that, probably ten. You and him got cross over some bacon, wasn’t it?

FL : Ham. Old Soldier gave me half for giving him some pills.

HH : What kind?

FL : Don’t recall. Jack wanted some but had been hard ass with his grub lately and by God I wasn’t in the fucking mood so I told him “no”.

HH : Burned up your lean to as I recall.

FL : And every God damn thing under it. When the rains came that night I threw all of his shit in the wash. I didn’t mean to hurt him.

HH : It was an accident. His feel got tangled up in the ball of wire he was hoarding.

FL : Well, it was good copper. Water pulled him in and sent him like a shot down stream. Cops drug him out later and he was still alive.

HH : Last words was the curse he put on you.

FL : Hell. That was ten years ago.

HH : I know. You hungry brother?

FL : Yeah



This begins a new series that documents conversations between two homeless gents who live in a large cosmopolitan city: HOEHANDLE & FEATHERLEGS.

Hoehandle Burk

Featherlegs Dupree


The following conversation took place at a city park:

HH: Featherlegs! I thought you were …were uh maybe dead from those spring rains.

FL: Naw they made us break camp and go to a mission.

HH: Oh shit, which one?

FL: Catholic one on 3rd. Stinking feet and farts all night.

HH: Got any drinking liquor?

Featherlegs pulls out a plastic pint of Ancient Age from his tattered coat pocket. The men enjoy a drink.

FL: Where you hanging at?

HH: This park. Sleep over in those bushes.

FL: Cops?

HH: Not enough to speak of. Been a week of peace so far. The library’s over at that end and they are liberal with the shitters.

FL: Been keeping up with the news?

HH: Every day.

FL: Hoehandle, that’s what I always liked about you. I don’t see a newspaper for a month and I run into you and bam- you know every fucking thing going on in the world. So, what’s been going on out there since I last laid eyes on you?

HH: Putin mainly.

FL: What’s that? Farts?

HH: He’s pretty much the King of Russia.

FL: It’s a he. So, what’s the King of Russia been up to that affects me?

HH: Not much I guess that should trouble you. He’s been messing around with our government, trying to screw things up.

FL: What for? It’s screwed up enough as it is.

HH: Anyway, it looks like Putin liked Trump enough to give him a boost and well a shit storm has broke out.

FL: Sounds to me like the pock ‘a lips.

HH: The what? Pass me the bottle.

FL: The POCK A LIPS. My momma used to teach Sunday School before she became a drunk. Told us about the end times, Jesus coming back. The pock a lips.

HH: Apocalypse. You mean the apocalypse.

FL: What’d I say? You hungry?

HH: Always. Want to pool?

FL: Hell yes.

The pair unwrapped their possessions and dined on pork and beans, questionable hot dogs and three beers they purchased from 7-11. Come back soon for more of their interactions.

Until then, the boys say “see ya later”.


Rolling Down The Road

arizona highway on a hot august night

indians selling fireworks a liquor store in sight

hitching with migrant pickers, weary and alone

looking forward to the night and resting heavy bones

stopping for a beer, tacos and the law

speaking the local language, hating the steely claw

neon dance hall down an alley of migrant dust

the women were all fleshy and fortunes had gone bust

lying through my teeth and half expecting the worst

gorging on the special and finally slaking an aching thirst

the lady she was taken and so were all the doors

hands on my face and ass on the floor

jumping through a tight window and running very fast

here comes the migrant truck and all my troubles passed

seventeen of us spread out on the spacious truck’s bed

smoking the night reefer and not a word was said

morning seems so distant as the tired bodies drift off

snoring and farting enduring an old man’s cough

the orange sun comes a walking so cool and new

stopping at a market wearing stripes of red and blue

sipping on black coffee and the promise of a mirage of work

we all roll down the block as the cab starts to jerk

bound for california the mountains look afar

bouncing on a freeway being passed by all the cars

napping on a gas can’s smelly foul load

me and my companions happily rolling down the road


Legend Of A Gunslinger Part Two


Around the camp fires his legend grew

growing numbers feared the man killer called “Anarchy”

he collected bodies and their subsequent rewards

saloons and dance halls grew still when his boots thundered inside

many watched him draw and shoot

deadly and sure, his aim was pristine and steady

ruthless in mining camps and always moving on

to the next reward

to the next poster

to the next gunfight

to the next western town


they sang songs about him

they wondered where he was from

they feared him but held respect

they were glad when he left town

until one day…..

Legend of a Gunslinger


Born in the west and forged in steel, his mother named him “Anarchy”

when Anarchy was a child he was sweet and full of wonder

the older folks called him “Arch” and let him play with guns

shooting ranges…bullet holes…squirrels…window panes

as Arch matured and got tall he wanted to be like the cowboys around him

cattle drives…saloons…hats…boots…sad music

Arch loved a girl and came under her sex spell her eyes her hair

she loved Arch…put her old man hated him

no was all he said over and over

Arch lost his girl…his way…became hard

on the inside Arch got black and stayed that way

in a saloon one day he spied a wanted poster

like this one

soon Arch became Anarchy again and became a

bounty hunter

to be continued……..



Wild Oats

late afternoon in a dark brown November

apple boxes swirl on windy gusts of frosty air

rushing so fast and struggling to make another sorry transition

a sudden idea so sweet and real strikes my face and spine

bound by the limits of a dry old page I strangle to convey the experience

packing to leave again and run away from today’s Titanic

I realize I will just return to this very spot where the apple boxes live

belonging to this block of earth where so much life inhabits and grows

I know I am coming back here

where God speaks

where the well flows

where madness rages

where it makes sense

where snow falls

where grammar is corrected

Closing my eyes I still can see those boxes swirl and bounce

tornadoes of brooding notions followed by events so strange

it was a cold Monday when time stood still and spoke right to me

and winked like Jack-in-the-apple-box

a clown smiled and my soul went home and I went with him


Thought Rain…


radiant colors thickly pouring onto the empty street

ideas so beautiful and warm wetting my feet

sunny side of brick buildings making its way

heads turn and the new season blasting an end today

the old bus station’s full and dirty windows pass by

worn out collar to the sharp breeze as electric memories hasten a sigh

a big cup of coffee, a table, and the puddles of afternoon rain

thoughts from a crazy cave washing over my soul a melodic refrain

lost love and islands of despair residing in  frayed telephone lines

remembering that day, the moment of golden much desired wine

books on a shelf and the window breaks a vision of darker clouds

heart beats so faint drowned out by angry crowds

oh that time when all that is halts and spins

tears now stumble and vault to my chin

a prisoner of old thoughts meant to only hurt

my reflection shows me the same old shirt

going on down the lane when the drops slowly leave

a growing reality of a time that decieved