crazy – Cajun Mutt Press

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 06/05/24

June 5, 2024 James D. Casey IV

A Southern Colloquy

There’s a dead cow on McSpadden Lane with its ear tag
lopped off. Too sick to stand, she was probably
dragged here by a chain-link fastened to a towbar. I tried
calling the county switchboard, but they suggested I find

a local farmer with a front loader who can haul away
large animals. And unless it’s blocking the roadway,
they claim to lack the resources to transfer a cow or any
large carcass. Can anyone share some advice?

Well, considering it’s a cow, I’d call the game warden
or call the livestock commission. Cows are not cheap;
surely some farmer will notice a missing cow? Most likely
it was hit by a car, but you might try calling

the Veterinary schools, too. Since they work with
heavy animals, they might have a solution. Then again,
you can always just burn it. A carcass burns well with
a low combustion fuel such as diesel or kerosene—
but keep a couple fire extinguishers handy!

Hmmm . . .
Before it contaminates the well water, I think I’ll call
the county again. I’ve heard they have a trailer—so-called
Dead Wagon—that they drag around to farms picking up
dead cattle to cut back on contamination . . . but this . . .

this dead cow dumped on McSpadden is far-flung from
the lowings of the family farmstead or the yammering
cries of the auction house. This is about malice, the making
of a true crime, a nastiness that transcends cruelty.

Okay, I really hate to make light of all this calamity,
but one of the crazies in Rockford had a cow die. He then
tied it to the tailgate of his F-150 and drove up and down
the freeway around Nails Creek Road. When stopped,

he explained that he was trolling for coyotes. The Sheriff
ordered him to cease. And after that, he began pulling
the carcass up the street to where he placed it in front
of a local pub, the same pub that evicted him for bad
behavior. Tacked a note on it: Weekly Meat Delivery.

©2024 Keith Gorman All rights reserved.

Keith Gorman is a poet, guitarist, and retired factory worker living near the foothills of The Great Smoky Mountain National Park in Eastern Tennessee. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the I-70 Review, The Delta Review, The California Quarterly Review, Chiron Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine, Plainsongs Magazine, and Muddy River Poetry Review.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 08/16/23

August 17, 2023 James D. Casey IV

my previous self

one of those days
you step in shit
and that stench
stays with you
no matter how
much you clean,
etc.

i like to think
of that as a
punishment
for a previous
life

and if i had
to guess

my previous
self must have
done some crazy
ass shit as the
punishments
have been rather
regular throughout
this life

so, i guess the next
life is when the money
and pussy comes

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) was raised by wolves yet still managed to graduate high school with honors. He has been published widely over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, Synchronized Chaos, The Beatnik Cowboy, Disturb the Universe Magazine and Lothlorien Poetry Journal. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 10/08/21

October 8, 2021 James D. Casey IV

HALFWAY CRAZY

She was halfway crazy
and he filled in the gaps,
being crazy the rest of the way.

They had the biggest trailer
in the trailer park –
the first one on the left –
and were rarely seen leaving the premises.
Empty beer cans littered their balding lawn
and no one dared to complain
because they knew
she was halfway crazy
and he was crazy the rest of the way.
When they first moved in
the neighbors found out
little by little
that it was best to leave them alone.

He talked to himself
and she spoke to no one but him –
doing so monotonously and endlessly.
He didn’t seem to listen;
he was listening to voices that weren’t there.
They had no kids
and no one came to visit them
but they had a cat
and when the cat died
it became just them in the trailer –
he mumbled to himself
and she never stopped
her torrent of complaints,
gossip, recitations of lists,
other things he had to hear
but to which he did not listen.

When the ambulance came
to take him to the hospital
no one knew why and no one asked her,
who stayed behind
and was rarely again seen
coming out of the trailer.
She watched the ambulance drive off
and then stood on the balding lawn
staring off at the part of the road
where the ambulance’s lights
blinked out of sight.

He never came back
and other than being seen occasionally
hobbling along with bags of groceries,
she didn’t even exist
for her neighbors in the trailer park.
She had no one to talk to anymore.
Sounds no longer came
from the biggest trailer in the park –
the first one on the left
as you come in.

It wasn’t long,
maybe a year or a year-and-a-half
since the ambulance came and left,
that no one saw or heard her at all.
It was a while before someone became emboldened
and knocked on the trailer door
of the woman now alone
and known as halfway crazy.
There was no answer.
The authorities were called
and when the police got permission
to break down the door
the stench that pushed out at them
brought them to their knees
and they had to hold back their vomit.

She was halfway crazy
and he filled in the gaps,
being crazy the rest of the way
in the biggest trailer in the trailer park –
the first one on the left as you come in
off of 707 –
and now they’ve both left for good.
No one ever spoke to them
but everyone’s noticed that they’re gone.

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.