There are six drafts of Anathema blues. Each has their charm. Like the companion book, Duskhouse to Duskhouse, the book explores the metaphysical sordid underbelly of the Southern United States. Don't be fooled into thinking this be more Southern Gothic nonsense. Mysticism gets sordid. Rednecks and small town christian teenagers get real dirty. The book is a dialogue with the ghost of Jesus Christ. THings get really really dumb.
A version of Anathema Blues or Duskhouse to Duskhouse will get published this fall.
Maybe I will post the other drafts of this poem later.
Above are pictures of my great great grandparents I believe on the Proctor side.
Also, below the poem are three new recent drawings as paintings. (All drawings are available for purchase.)
Houses and family –rooted in shining nights
Death was posing as a room. We walked in ---without knowing.
I heard three women gossiping about bad omens.
All the roads are shaking in the wind. I can overturn water in my hand. I watch no reflections upon the lake at night. I have been invited by a stranger’s memory.
I am in the grave that my father dug in his youth. He is peering down upon his son’s body.
Bony hand on a bony shoulder.
A girl pressing her naked breasts against your back in the blue ice room.
Distant horses in a distant field
The days are clouds drifting upon someone else’s door. Someone lucky. Near the doorknob smooth.
I saw clouds forming images.