I didn’t connect regardless how much I participated, it’s a vocab thing though not to do with skills of expression; ejecting bullets from the breech, freezing whole carcasses of home-slaughtered sheep, the contradictions roll the same roads, and families still come to visit: crops in the bush, sullen days coming down off bad speed, scoring from the old bloke shacked up with teenage girls, his bull terrier crunching chickens; a flat in the city is a deal that can go either way, and the economics of the paddock are the call-girl’s profit; the ford fairmont runs against the speed camera, and blind grass poisons sheep — sightless like the minister amongst his flock, the school teacher, the father who won’t let his son play netball because it will turn him, like an innocent bitten by a vampire, into a pervert — or worse — a poofter. Outside, you can’t know that those who speak in short, inverted sentences always have fences in a state of disrepair, line length and wire length are directly proportional, eloquent subdivider of land, intensive pig farmer, will let nothing in or out, though the space around the pig-shed is large and open, mainly used for hay cutting while all sons play Guns ’n’ Roses’ Appetite for Destruction, timeless classic... apotheosis, serrated road edge where a termite mound astoundingly remains intact: there are no generics, no models of behaviour. It’s not that my name is a misnomer: it’s who owns a particular conversation.
"Redneck Refutation" is reprinted from The New Arcadia by John Kinsella. Copyright © 2005 by John Kinsella. With permission of the publisher, W. W. Norton and Company, Inc.