Roadside Angels by The Ryder McCoy Band

When we first opened up this book...
weren't nobody preaching from the ditch.
Folite folks rolled their windows up past the county line.
Now every tourist with a microphone wants to play Lazarus in the mud.
Putting on a costume.

Started out back where the sycamores rot
Speaking in tongues over a hotplate pot
Nobody sang 'bout the third-day shakes
Or the deals with the Beast that a broke man makes
Now I look around and the actors are out
Selling plastic crosses in a spiritual drought
Bought a twenty-dollar flannel and a scripted sin
Trying to tourist a hell they ain't never been in
They writing plays 'bout a pipe they ain't never rolled
While Rooster’s trading teeth for the streets of gold
You can fake the rasp, boy, you can rent the pew
But you can't fake the shadow people staring at you

They painting stage ash on a clean white hand
While we wandering forty nights in a blistered land

What you know about this Slapout life?
Scraping frost off a mirror with a pocketknife!
Y'all putting on a pageant for the Sunday crowd
We just reading out of Revelation loud!
You can't rehearse the famine, you can't act the thirst
When you been baptized in the chemical first!
Ain't a parable written that we made up to sell
We just taking communion at the bottom of the well!
What you know about this Slapout life?
(what you know?)
(false prophets!)

Heard a boy on the screen talking 'bout the glass
Like it’s just a little prop that you puff and pass
Tell me what you know about a four-day fast
Searching through the shag rug for the first and the last?
What you know about a King James torn in half
Used to funnel white salt from a golden calf?
You ever watch a grown man weep in the weeds
Counting out thirty silver pieces in beads?
See, an actor takes a bow when the curtain drops
He don't hear the locusts when the music stops
You got a ride back home and a clean hotel
We got Babylon burning in a single-wide shell

Beware the scribes who walk in stolen robes.
They want the scars of Job without the boils of Job.
You can't borrow the cross just to look outlaw...
When the furnace gets hot, the plastic gonna thaw.

What you know about this Slapout life?
Scraping frost off a mirror with a pocketknife!
Y'all putting on a pageant for the Sunday crowd
We just reading out of Revelation loud!
You can't rehearse the famine, you can't act the thirst
When you been baptized in the chemical first!
Ain't a parable written that we made up to sell
We just taking communion at the bottom of the well!
What you know about this Slapout life?
(ain't a play, son)
(check the scripture)

Go on and wash the soot off your face, son.
Revival’s over.
We didn't write this to get on the radio.
We just wrote it on the wall before the roof caved in.
Welcome to Slapout.

Yeah.
Welcome to Holtville. Slapout, if you know what's good for you.
Ain't no streetlights out on this logging road.
Just the things that bite in the dark.
Let's go.

County road 40, deep in the Holtville cut
Five days wide awake, keeping my eyelids shut
I see the shadows moving even when the wind is dead
Got a half-ounce of ice just rattling in my head
Sitting on the tailgate, rusted-out square body
Waiting on a local boy, thinks he’s catching bodies
Supposed to be a hand-to-hand, simple little swap
But I hear the twigs breaking right behind the drop
Paranoia whispering, telling me to load the lead
I don't need to see the threat, I know what the silence said
Got the sawed-off sitting underneath a dirty flannel
Out here in the sticks, we don't switch the fucking channel
We handle it. Dirt caked up under the fingernails
This is where the GPS and all your logic fails.

As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
Got the glass in my pipe and the smoke on my breath
It’s Slapout, Alabama, where the weak disappear
I’m the baddest motherfucker that is feeding the fear
You want a taste of the danger? Step off the paved road
Where the meth cooks bubble and the shotguns reload.
Yeah, I own the night.

Headlights cut the trees, a beat-up silver Dodge
Trying to pull up quiet, creeping through the camouflage
Four doors pop, but it was supposed to be just two
Travis brought his cousins, thinking I ain’t got a clue
Sweat beading on his forehead, scratching at his neck
I can see his pupils twitching, boy is a fucking wreck
He says, "We taking all the product, leave the cash on the dash"
I just took another hit and let him talk his trash
Meth vision kicking in, everything is crystal clear
I ain't got a single ounce of hesitation or of fear
I stood up off the tailgate, let the flannel drop down
Twelve-gauge pump, heaviest metal in the town
I racked it once—clack-clack—sounded like a thunderclap
Put the cold steel on his nose, told him, "Close your fucking trap."

Ain't no sirens coming. Ain't nobody gonna call.
It’s just us out in the dirt, back against the wall.
I see the twitch in his hand, I see the fold in his spine
You tried to step into my woods, but motherfucker, they're mine.
Take a breath, Travis. Make a choice.

As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
Got the glass in my pipe and the smoke on my breath
It’s Slapout, Alabama, where the weak disappear
I’m the baddest motherfucker that is feeding the fear
You want a taste of the danger? Step off the paved road
Where the meth cooks bubble and the shotguns reload.
Yeah, I own the night.

Travis put his hands up, backed away real slow
Told his boys to get in, told the driver time to go
Tires spinning in the mud, kicking gravel in the weeds
Leaving me alone again with my habits and my needs.
I lit the torch back up, watched the taillights fade black.
If they ever come around again... they ain't going back.
Slapout.
Holtville.
Whatever you wanna call it.
It's my graveyard.
Stay out my way.

Friday night on the blacktop.
Old four-barrel sucking air, trying to outrun what's already in the cab.

Got grease on my knuckles and gravel in my boots
A rusted box blade cutting through the roots
Ignition wire sparking against the frame
Chasing down a fever that don't know my name
Pull into the gravel by the county line
Neon sign buzzing like a warning sign
Looking for a choir in an empty glass
Trading off tomorrow just to make midnight pass

Lord, those roadside angels with the red clay dust
Brimstone perfume and an altar built of rust
Down at the Crossroads, out behind the shed
Looking for salvation in the words unsaid
Red-lip communion, silver in the purse
Blessing on the forehead, driving toward a curse

St. Crystaline’s standing by the payphone pole
Tapping on the coin slot, trying to buy a soul
Lighter click snapping like an old church chime
Counting out seconds on borrowed time
She whispers through the window where the glass is cracked
Says what you take with you, son, you don't bring back
I got twenty in my pocket and a cold iron key
Looking at the dark looking back at me

The trap don't need no teeth, boy, if you walk in on your own two feet.

I'm just watching the taillights, Unc.

Taillights don't lead home. Drive.

Roadside angels with the red clay dust
Brimstone perfume and an altar built of rust
Down at the Crossroads, out behind the shed
Looking for salvation in the words unsaid
Red-lip communion, silver in the purse
Blessing on the forehead, driving toward a curse

High beams cutting through the ditch weed.
Still rolling.
Still cold.

"Put the towel under the door, Ryder... the pine trees are listening."
"Ain't the trees, Unc. It's already in the room."

Three days awake on County Road Eleven
Blue tarp nailed where the window glass broke
Pulled the stem out the drawer by the water-stained Bible
Thumb on the wheel till the blue flame spoke
Rolled that bowl like a carnival fortune-teller
Watching the frost turn to oil and crawl
Then the puddle went black in the curve of the pyrex
Like a carnival witch's crystal ball

"Don't look in the bubble, boy, blink your eyes!"
The smoke didn't rise, it just hung in the glass
And a face pushed through from the other side

There's a face in the glass and it knows my name!
Grinning crooked, numb, like it's glad I came!
Reading my fortune in a chemical fog!
With the eyes of a preacher and the teeth of a dog!
Yeah, the glass gets hot and the room gets small!
When the Devil looks back from that crystal ball!
(Lookin' right back at me!)

He had my daddy's temper and a gold-tooth smile
Sitting cross-legged in a puddle of sin
Showed me a movie on the curved glass wall
Every ditch that I crawled out, he's dragging me in
The microwave hummed in the kitchen like a choir
Tommy said the wiring in this trailer's possessed
I tried to set it down on the laminate table
But my knuckles locked up against my chest
"He knows your middle name, Ryder! Blow it out!"

I tipped the stem sideways to drown him in ash
But he tapped on the inside of the glass with a claw
Said, "Take another pull, son, let's see what you saw!"

There's a face in the glass and it knows my name!
Grinning crooked, numb, like it's glad I came!
Reading my fortune in a chemical fog!
With the eyes of a preacher and the teeth of a dog!
Yeah, the glass gets hot and the room gets small!
When the Devil looks back from that crystal ball!

You think that's smoke? That's the Flood coming up.
He's wearing my flannel. He's drinking my cup.
Smash it on the concrete! Stomp it with your heel!
If you break that glass, boy, you make him real!

There's a face in the glass and it knows my name! (KNOWS MY NAME!)
Grinning crooked, numb, like it's glad I came! (GLAD I CAME!)
Reading my fortune in a chemical fog!
With the eyes of a preacher and the teeth of a dog!
Yeah, the glass gets hot and the room gets small!
When the Devil looks back from that crystal ball!

Torch went out.
Glass turned grey.
Still got Wanda's glitter stuck to my wrist from Tuesday...
Only thing in here that don't look like him.
"Sun's coming up, boy. Don't look at the mirror."

Sixty-two miles down Route 9.
Radiator spitting rust.
Bargaining with whatever's listening.

Nails dug deep in the cracked steering wheel
Floorboard throwing up the heat of hell
Cold sweat running down the hollow of my spine
Counting every white post on the center line
Stomach like an anvil, teeth biting tongue
Chasing after mercy with a dry-mouthed lung
Breathe in the dust, hold the shaking in the wrist
Ain't a church in this county got an altar like this.

Pulled behind the closed feed store off the grade
Quarter past seven in the diesel shade
Phone says "two minutes, pulling in now"
That was thirty-five ago, sweat upon my brow
Waiting on a shadow that don't own a clock
Listening to the lifters in the engine block.

It’s an hour down on your knees in the dirt
Pleading for the remedy to quiet down the hurt
Cellophane communion passed across the glass
Cash in a fist while the county cruisers pass
Sixty miles down just to kill the early shakes
Sixty miles back through the choices a man makes.

Window rolled down half an inch in the dusk
Pistol on the floorboard, air smelling like musk
He didn't say a word, just took the crumpled twenty-twos
Gave me my salvation in a thumb-size fuse
I didn't head for the blacktop, couldn't wait the ride
Pulled behind the pine break where the dead trucks hide
Cut the lights dark, let the dash light glow
Dropped my head down where the spirit runs slow.

Just had to stop the shivering, Unc. Just had to get straight.

"A starving dog don't taste the hook, boy.
He just swallows the bait. Now throw it in drive."

It’s an hour down on your knees in the dirt
Pleading for the remedy to quiet down the hurt
Cellophane communion passed across the glass
Cash in a fist while the county cruisers pass
Sixty miles down just to kill the early shakes
Sixty miles back through the choices a man makes.

Now the asphalt’s black velvet.
Now the chest don't rattle.
Headlights in the mirror three car-lengths back.
Tires humming scripture on a tar-strip track.
Still forty miles out.
Still running in the dark.

"Ryder.
Don’t look at me like that.
Keep the truck runnin'."

Somebody crowbarred the ice machine
outside the Citgo.
Door hangin' open,
ice melting in the mud.

Cody sat on a milk crate,
brass key under his nails,
telling bout the rapture hit Prattville
back in November.

Four-dollar crucifix
hangin' from a shoestring,
strips of Suboxone
tucked underneath.

He looked at me and said,
"Communion’s twenty a strip,  Sister.
Gas bill came today
with the pink paper."

End of County 11,
old tire shop caved in.

Luther had an eviction notice
folded in fourths,
scraping white crust
off heavy Reynolds wrap.

His mama called four times
while the torch kept hissing.

Blue screen in the dark:
Mama Calling.

flipped it face down
in a McDonald’s sack.

Luther grinned and said,
"You hear that trumpet, Jessie?
Jericho’s comin' down
behind the trailer."

I listened.

Just the transformer
humming in the rain.

Nobody’s comin' down from the clouds.
We build the fire.
We drink the smoke.

Call it Judgment Day
so nobody’s gotta clean the kitchen floor.

Yeah, call it holy
while the water shuts off.

Ryder kept one hand
on the column shifter,
watchin' the ditch line
for county patrol.

Luther’s girl came through the weeds
wearin' one white Reebok.

Other foot bare,
walking broken glass
like Moses waiting
on the Coosa to split.

Narcan box in her hand
like a hymn book.

Said God told her
not to look back.

I gave her half my Mavericks.

Didn't ask about the shoe.

Around here,
you ask about the shoe,
you stay till sunrise.

Preacher on the AM radio says Job had sores on his skin.
Says Job sat in the ash and didn't curse the sky.
Job didn't have no baby daddy in Kilby Prison.
Job didn't have a butane torch burnin' holes through his dashboard.
Down here, the devil don't need horns or hooves.
He just needs a payday lender
And four days without sleep.

Sun cut through the pines
like dirty grease.

Luther dropped the torch,
burned the floor mat.

Ryder killed it
with stale coffee.

Luther stared at his hands,
shaking so hard
he couldn't hold them still.

No angels came.

Sky never cracked.

Red dust settled
back on the kudzu.

Just three tired people
in a '94 Silverado,

running out of gas,

waiting on a miracle
that costs thirty-five dollars.

Nobody’s comin' down from the clouds.
We build the fire.
We drink the smoke.

Call it Judgment Day
so nobody’s gotta clean the kitchen floor.

Yeah, call it holy
while the water shuts off.

Ryder put it in reverse.

Tires crushed beer cans
in the weeds.

Luther’s mama called
one more time.

Battery died
before she stopped ringin'.

Sun’s up.

Go on, Ryder.

Hit the road.

TITLE: SAINTS DON'T BUY BUTANE

Pull in up here.
Need cigarettes,
something cold...

and whatever they sell
for a conscience.

Never mind.

They'd keep that
behind the counter.

Girl at the register
wears a little cross.

Track marks hiding
underneath her watch.

Boy in the bathroom
been gone too long.

Somebody keeps knocking
with a baby along.

Baby chewing
on a motel key.

Microwave humming.
Lottery on TV.

Pump six,
somebody passes a strip.

Eight-dollar communion.
Hand to hand quick.

Body of Christ...

eight dollars a strip.

Bought the cigarettes.
Forgot the change.

Heard somebody praying
out back in the rain.

Couldn't hear Jesus.
Couldn't hear a name.

Just:

"Please...

not tonight.

Not again."

Saints don't buy butane
at quarter till four.

Saints don't leave prints
on a motel door.

Saints don't call dealers
and bargain with God,

then wake up Tuesday
and do it again.

Highway don't care
what name you pray in.

Devil ain't picky
when night shift pays him.

Crank up the truck.
Let the dashboard glow.

We got nowhere worth going...

but we know
where not to go.

Mercy lived behind
the old tire place.

JESUS LOVES YOU
crooked on her face.

Pills in a Crown Royal bag
by the stove.

Narcan beside them
for somebody going cold.

Said she died twice
back in February.

Third time,
she'd know where to go.

Her brother cooked meth
in a fishing camper.

Blew every window out
Easter morning.

Sheriff found Job
open in the gravel.

Half of the pages
burned to the binding.

Mercy looked down,
lit a cigarette.

Said:

"Funny how God survives
everybody else's house."

Passed a place
with the porch light blue.

Ambulance crooked
in the wet front yard.

Nobody running.

That's how you know.

When they're still trying,
everybody moves fast.

When it's over...

folks start standing around.

Then a mama came outside
holding one boot.

Not both.

Just one.

Held it like Moses
waiting on the sea.

Like something
ought to open.

Nothing did.

Saints don't buy butane
at quarter till four.

Saints don't leave prints
on a motel door.

Saints don't call dealers
and bargain with God,

then wake up Tuesday
and do it again.

Highway don't care
what name you pray in.

Devil ain't picky
when night shift pays him.

Crank up the truck.
Let the dashboard glow.

We got nowhere worth going...

but we know
where not to go.

Unc said sin
ain't always evil.

Sometimes
it's just hungry.

Sometimes it's a shaking hand
digging change from a cup holder.

Sometimes it's a mama
lying to the power company

because the light bill
became a baggie.

Sometimes Revelation
ain't angels and swords.

Sometimes it's 5:12 A.M.

and the dealer
finally answers.

Sun came bleeding
through the pine tree smoke.

Night shift stepping out
for one last smoke.

Same little crosses.
Same old scars.

Everybody looking
toward somewhere far.

Like maybe today
somebody might leave.

Most don't.

Neither did we.

That's the part
nobody puts in songs.

Most folks don't get saved.

Most folks don't get damned.

They wake up tired...

and do Tuesday again.

Saints don't buy butane
at quarter till four.

But we've seen good people
crawl off that floor.

Seen devils bring water.
Seen preachers walk past.

Seen somebody with a needle
give away their last cash.

So don't tell us who's holy
from your side of the street.

Some angels got track marks.

Some devils look clean.

Crank up the truck.
Morning's starting to show.

We got nowhere worth going...

That's never stopped us before.

You think God
stays up this late?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Take the back road.

Don't feel like seeing
anybody saved today.

Day four.
Shadows talking from the tree line.
Don't tap the glass...
Just watch the tree line.

Day four running on a cracked flatline
Paranoia sketching faces in the dark pine
Four-wheeler path cut behind the gravel pit
Old rusted toolbox where the scales sit
Step light, brother—this is holy ground
You make one wrong move, you won't make a sound
Stolen copper on the tailgate, weighing out the cut
Jaw locked tighter than a steel deer hut
Got an eight-ball sealed in a cut-off bag
Two-tone Dodge with a paper county tag
West Coast bounce with an outlaw drawl
Counting shadow people climbing up the timber wall
I don’t need a scale to know the bag is light
Got a thirty-thirty loaded for the dead of night
He handed me the glass, I handed him the spool
Down in Elmore County, ain't nobody nobody’s fool.

We don't close our eyes when the moon turns red
Living with the ghosts hanging in our head
Out here surviving in the wilderness test
Feeding off the fire that is burning in the chest
Red clay roads and the sirens in the distance
Living on the edge of a violent resistance
Ain't no preacher out here giving out grace
Just a torch and a pipe in a dark-ass place.

Blue butane hiss like a burning bush
Everything's quiet till the briars get a push
Heard a twig snap hard forty yards out back
Heart start to drop like a cardiac attack
Could be Elmore County with a K-9 crew
Could be my own mind playing tricks on the view
Hit the kill-switch quick on the generator wire
Sweat running cold through a whole body fire
Covenant made in the red dirt ditch
Handshake locked with a nervous twitch
Pocket full of white and a thirty-pack of beer
Can't remember what year we been living in here
Crawled through the swamp mud back to the truck
Headlights off, running straight on luck
Shift to four-low when the tires hit the creek
Haven’t seen a bed or a blanket in a week.

Four days gone, staring down the dark road...
Ain't nobody coming out to carry this load.
When your eyes play tricks and your hands get numb...
You don't run from the devil, you just wait till he come.

We don't close our eyes when the moon turns red
Living with the ghosts hanging in our head
Out here surviving in the wilderness test
Feeding off the fire that is burning in the chest
Red clay roads and the sirens in the distance
Living on the edge of a violent resistance
Ain't no preacher out here giving out grace
Just a torch and a pipe in a dark-ass place.

Holtville crossroads...
Keep the high beams off.
Wilderness testing on a backroad clock.
We still awake.
Slapout...

Keep driving, Ryder.

Don't turn around.

There's a motel key in my boot
and somebody else's blood under my thumbnail.

Ain't that a hell of a way
to start telling the truth?

Budget Inn sign missing half the B.
Blue light buzzing over room thirteen.

Ice machine coughing by the stairs.
Television preacher bleeding through the wall.

Spoon in the sink.
One shoe by the bed.
Faucet running.

His phone lighting up again.

MAMA CALLING.

MAMA CALLING.

I turned it face down.

Little white Bible
inside the nightstand drawer.

Somebody used Revelation
to roll a twenty-dollar bill.

God forgive me...

I laughed.

Then headlights crossed the ceiling.

I grabbed the bag.

Left the water running.

Take me down to the Jericho Trees...

Where the black water don't ask
what you done.

Where the cypress roots rise
like knuckles through mud,

and nothing gets clean
just because morning comes.

I don't need heaven.
I don't need release.

Just take me down...

to the Jericho Trees.

...Jericho Trees...

Mile marker twenty-seven.

Dead possum in the yellow line.

Found his lighter in my pocket.

Red plastic.
Teeth marks on the side.

Threw it out the window.

Made you back up.

Ain't that stupid?

Found a church flyer in the weeds.

REVIVAL THIS SUNDAY.

Mud across Jesus' face.

I kept that.

Don't know why.

His mama had a gold ring.
Little blue stone.

Found it beside the pipe
after everybody quit moving.

Put it in my pocket
right beside the bag.

That's the part that stays.

Because somewhere that morning
an old woman opened a jewelry box

and didn't know yet
that two things were missing.

Unc said trees remember everything.

Axes.
Floods.
Rope.

Names cut in bark
by people already dead.

Said the swamp don't forgive nobody.

It just keeps the evidence.

That's why we're going.

We killed the headlights
where the pavement gave up.

Spanish moss hanging still.

No wind.
No birds.

Jericho Trees
coming out of black water
like they been waiting all night.

I stepped in.

Mud took one shoe.

Kept walking.

Pulled out the ring.

Dropped it in.

Nothing happened.

No thunder.

No angels.

Just circles on the water...

getting wider...

getting weaker...

gone.

AND THAT'S WHEN I KNEW...

The water wasn't holy.

The trees weren't judges.

Morning came anyway.

Mosquitoes kept biting.

Somewhere a truck started.

Somewhere a baby cried.

Somewhere his mama
was still calling that phone.

And God...

if He was there...

didn't say a damn thing.

Take me down to the Jericho Trees...

Where the black water keeps what it knows.

Where a girl can throw gold
twenty feet deep

and still carry home
what she came there to lose.

I ain't asking to be forgiven.

I just needed somewhere
to put the scream.

...hold the scream...

Take me down...

to the Jericho Trees.

Ryder...

you got another cigarette?

Never mind.

Let's go.

Sun's coming up.

And I look worse in daylight.

Don't take County Nine.

His mama lives that way.

THE BLACKWATER KEEPER

Ryder McCoy Band

A barefoot woman came through the cane
With a mason jar full of summer rain
Said, “Drink this down if you wanna see tomorrow”

She drew a doorway in the mud
With a chicken bone dipped in tupelo blood
Said, “Cross that line, but leave behind your sorrow”

There was a Cadillac beneath the lake
With the headlights on and the windows black
And a preacher at the wheel with a copper crown

He said, “Climb inside, the road runs deep”
Then drove that car where the catfish sleep
Till the moon above was upside down

We passed a church with no front door
Where the dead folks danced on the hardwood floor
While a one-eyed angel played a busted piano

I asked him where this highway went
He laughed like thunder through a broken vent
Said, “Everybody rides, but nobody knows”

Then I met the blackwater keeper
Standing where the cypress shadows grow
He said, “Every soul becomes a seeker
Soon as it learns how little it knows”

He pointed where the river disappeared
Said, “What you’re looking for ain’t over here”
Then the fog rolled in and swallowed him whole

We came upon a cottonmouth king
With a silver tooth and a diamond ring
Holding court on top of an old church pew

There were twelve black crows in Sunday clothes
Playing poker with the cards face down
And every single hand somehow already knew

A woman whispered through a radio
From a station nobody seemed to know
Said, “Turn around before the morning finds you”

But the road ahead turned red as rust
And the tires kicked up Mississippi dust
So we kept on moving like the cursed ones do

Then a ferryman in a camouflage coat
Pulled beside us in a flat-bottom boat
Though there wasn’t any water on the road

He said, “I carried your granddaddy through
And one day I’ll come back around for you”
Then vanished where the telephone poles bowed

And I met the blackwater keeper
Standing where the cypress shadows grow
He said, “Every soul becomes a seeker
Soon as it learns how little it knows”

He pointed where the river disappeared
Said, “What you’re looking for ain’t over here”
Then the fog rolled in and swallowed him whole

At the edge of Slapout I saw the sun
Come up black where the creek should run
And the highway curled like a copperhead snake

There was a little boy beside the road
With an empty cage and a heavy load
Said, “Some things leave before you know they escaped”

I asked his name and he shook his head
Said, “Names don’t matter much to the dead”
Then smiled like he knew me from another life

A screen door slammed in an empty field
And something underneath the red clay squealed
While the morning cut the darkness like a knife

Then I found the blackwater keeper
Waiting where the Alabama pines lean low
I said, “I reckon I’m still a seeker”
He said, “That’s the only thing you need to know”

Then he stepped into that muddy stream
Like a man walking backward through a dream
Till the water took his footprints and his soul

Somewhere past the county line
There’s a road that ain’t on any sign
And some nights you can hear that engine roll

If you see those headlights through the trees...

Don’t wave.

Unless you’re ready to know.

TITLE: THE ONES LEFT HERE

...vehicles abandoned across the county...

...reports of missing persons are now statewide...

...do not travel toward the interstate...

"And behold a pale horse...

and Hell followed with him."

"The seals are open."

Rain came sideways
about half past two.

River crossed the highway
like it always knew.

Church doors open.
Nobody inside.

Cars in the parking lot,
headlights still alive.

Coffee on the counter.
Phone ringing off the wall.

Little pair of shoes
by the fellowship hall.

Then the bell started swinging
with nobody on the rope.

That's when we quit calling
what we had hope.

No blood.

No bodies.

No tracks in the rain.

Just half of the county
gone without a name.

We didn't need a preacher.

Didn't need to ask why.

We knew what folks meant

by left behind.

The saints went up.

We stayed down here.

Red moon rising
and the water ain't clear.

If that was the trumpet,
then we missed our ride.

If heaven shut the door...

we're on the other side.

No second bus.
No easy way through.

The seals are open now.

We got hell to go through.

Power went out
before the morning came.

Something hit the barn
and the horses went insane.

Old man Miller
came running through the rain.

No shoes on his feet.
Blood down his face.

Said he'd seen something
walking through the flood.

Looked like a man
till it stood back up.

Wouldn't say more.

Just stared at the road.

Then something in the tree line

answered him low.

...National Guard units have withdrawn...

...water systems contaminated...

...do not open your doors after dark...

...do not answer anyone
calling your name from outside...

Generator quit
about an hour before dawn.

Fridge went quiet.
Radio stayed on.

Loaded what we had.
Counted every shell.

Funny how survival
starts looking like hell.

Bible on the table
open to Revelation.

Half the page wet
from the leaking foundation.

Somebody whispered:

"Maybe we can still be saved."

Nobody answered.

Rain kept hitting the pane.

Unc used to say
folks read the ending wrong.

Everybody wants heaven.

Nobody reads what comes after they're gone.

Famine.

Fire.

Water turned bad.

Kings losing kingdoms.

Good people going mad.

We used to joke
we'd straighten up someday.

Someday came...

and took the good ones away.

Then something hit the front porch.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

No knock.

Just weight.

Front window cracked.

Hall light died.

Something dragged one nail
down the outside wall.

Slow.

Like it knew
we were listening.

Then a voice from the porch said:

"Let me in."

Sounded exactly like somebody

we watched disappear.

The saints went up.

We stayed down here.

Black rain falling
and the end drawing near.

If that was the trumpet,
then we missed our ride.

If heaven shut the door...

we're on the other side.

No second chance
coming out of the blue.

The seals are open now.

We got hell to go through.

Let the pale horse run.

Let the red moon rise.

Let Revelation
crawl out of the night.

We weren't taken.

That's all we knew.

And whatever comes next...

we're going through.

...to anyone still alive...

...sunrise is no longer expected at—

Don't open that door.

"And Hell followed with him."

County road midnight...
heat lightning behind the pines.

Old church sign says:
JESUS SAVES.

Somebody spray-painted underneath:
(then why we still here?)

Dog barking three houses down...
screen door slamming.

I seen the devil buying ice
under a busted Exxon light.

Mama kept a Bible
by the unpaid bills.

Daddy kept a pistol
by the sleeping pills.

Trailer park glowing...
blue television snow.

Copper wire burning
in a coffee can stove.

Boy named Cricket
sold crystal by the gram.

Cross around his neck...
blood across his hand.

Said:
“This ain’t dope, Ryder...

this is revelation.”

Then his pupils went black
at the railroad station.

Freight train screamed...
sparks hit the weeds.

He said angels got hungry
when heaven stopped feeding.

I smelled burnt plastic...
rain on hot dirt.

Somewhere behind Dollar General
a preacher got hurt.

And every stop sign
had the same white mark:

three crooked circles...
pointing toward the dark.

Next night...
sirens rolled low.

Moon looked sick
through the chemical smoke.

Cricket came running
with no shoes on.

Said:
“They writing tomorrow
on the walls before dawn.”

We crossed behind
the abandoned tire shop.

Found red spray paint:
WHEN THE POWER GRID STOPS.

Found dead fish
floating belly-up silver.

Found a shopping cart Bible
down by the river.

Pages stuck together...
Revelation seventeen.

Black fingerprints
where the saints should’ve been.

Cricket started laughing:
(you hear them?)

I heard transformers humming
like a thousand dead hymns.

Then every porch light
blinked three times.

Every police radio
spit the same damn line:

“MAN MADE THE FIRE...
MAN MADE THE FLOOD...”

Then silence hit hard.

And the ditch filled with blood-red mud.

I SAW IT...

Not heaven.

Not hell.

Us.

Oil on the water...
needles in the well.

Children breathing smoke
under refinery flame.

Politicians on television
selling somebody else to blame.

Dealers like angels
with their wings burned black.

Preachers counting money
while the poor smoked crack.

Crystal in the mirror
made tomorrow look near.

Not prophecy from God...

just mankind’s fear.

The sky turned green.

Cell towers screamed.

Cricket dropped down
on both his knees.

Said:
“Ryder...

the devil ain’t coming.”

Thunder split the county.

“He already got here...

wearing our face.”

(our face...)

I confess...

I wanted a sign.

Wanted God to carve
something clean in the sky.

But God stayed quiet...

and the alley spoke plain.

Rust on the gutter.

Meth smoke.

Acid rain.

Maybe judgment
ain’t a trumpet at all.

Maybe it’s a landlord notice
nailed crooked to the wall.

Maybe Armageddon
wears work boots and jeans...

and sleeps behind the Chevron
beside the busted ice machine.

I SAW IT...

Not heaven.

Not hell.

Us.

Oil on the water...
needles in the well.

Crystal ain’t prophecy.

Crystal just shows...

how fast a broke world
can swallow its soul.

Cricket screamed:
“THE END AIN’T COMING!”

Lightning hit the pines.

“THE END BEEN WORKING
SECOND SHIFT THIS WHOLE DAMN TIME!”

(whole damn time...)

I SAW IT...

Not heaven.

Not hell.

Us.

Black smoke climbing
from the county bus.

Graffiti on the overpass:
REPENT OR ROT.

Church bell ringing
though the church was locked.

Cricket disappeared
when the sunrise came.

Left one glass pipe
and a Bible in the rain.

Last thing he wrote
in the mud by the tracks:

YOU KEEP WAITING ON JESUS...

BUT LOOK WHAT MAN BROUGHT BACK.

Morning came gray...

buzzards on the wire.

Little kids walking
past last night’s fire.

Gas station coffee...
ash in the breeze.

Somebody coughing
behind the pine trees.

And that old church sign
still flickered:

JESUS SAVES.

Below it...

fresh red paint.

MAN DECIDES
WHAT’S LEFT TO SAVE.

Amen...

or whatever comes after.