The White Trash Chronicles

The White Trash Chronicles is another chapter in the on-again, off-again unfolding saga of Jay Marvin's self proclaimed "Punk Noir" writing style. This collection of poems deals with stormy relationships, down-and-out lives, and life as seen through a muddy camera lens. Read more Continue reading Read less REVIEW
... paints his unflinching view of how it is out there. An honest voice in an age of whining, emotionless hacks. -- Tom Russell, poet and song writer

Meet Jay Marvin, the first great crime writer of the 21st Century. --Edward Bunker, author of Dog Eat Dog and Little Boy Blue ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jay Marvin is a sometimes writer, painter, and full-time talk show host on WLS Radio in Chicago. EXCERPT. REPRINTED BY PERMISSION. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
He sits nightly and watches her peel it off in the heat and humidity from across the courtyard and she knows he's watching and first it

scared her and then she felt a little something every time she did it

he watching her she knowing he's watching the air wet and dead

one night she brings a lover home they do it with the window open

he watching her she knowing he's watching she giving her best

performance for both lovers he sits in the shadows and wonders

what it would be like if he were there and the other man were here

where he sits bound to a chair sentenced to watch to yearn to thirst

throat dry wanting the softness of her the warmth of skin on skin

he'd settle for that just that would be enough the night's performance

crowds his soul claws at the sides of his skull the day drags on

he prays for night and another look another taste tonight her window

is dark he waits there is nothing he hears a loud pounding on

his door he's scared he knows no one and no one knows him he

pulls out the gun he has the right to bare arms he ended up in

that chair fighting for that right he sits in front of the door says

nothing the pounding continues he lets the door open and someone

charges in like dead weight against a movable object he fires twice

she lays on his floor blood leaking from her throat in small bird

like gushes acrylic red he lowers the gun smell of cordite in the

wet air they lock eyes he says nothing she slowly pulls the flap

of her blouse open exposing her breast her eyes vacant he takes

the gun and slips it in his mouth free from his chair at last.













































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