Friday, August 22, 2014

Two Summer Poems

Two Drafts of Summer Poems

Dog days Whining

Coldy summer sweat--

crimson curtain billows==

and if the air shattered
and the glass was not replaced--

Bones outlast the meat

ask the chicken bones the rats drag off
and gnaw upon neath dark city bushes.

            songs git forgotten
birds outlast songs--
            feathers outlast birds

            how my brothers growl
amongst the bone yard of dog days

and strangers slamming doors

in the dark hallway at three a.m



Heavy rains sultry upon-- whilst
Indian summer  rusts and needs a shuckin

and the skull can be a tin roof and the hair a bunch O

Outside--the nautical maneuvers of clouds---

When the night clears and the stars shine a sheathing sparkle
I know there is no outer space.  Only
the grotesque collisions of inner space.

and then i'm watchin a ghost taking a piss in tha river.
crickets loud turn my blood into powder--

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Folklore, Education And The Stasis/Dissipations Of Societies plus a poem in rough draft

Rough draftings of an essay to be expanded---Plus the draft of a poem based on a bit of  Maryland Folklore.

Folklore, Education And The Stasis/Dissipations Of Societies.

The appeal of folklore and regionalism.  That is the old education.  Of the land and that is also the history--The education of the history of the land.  The pertinent educational lyricism of locality.  Locality is where anyone is.

There are intense subtleties and nuances when stating the obvious.  Dangerous even.

I grew up in North Georgia.  The old folkloric Appalachian traditions mostly died out and still dying out in the applications of everyday life to this day.  I was not the better for it.

There is an unsettling abstraction beneath folklore(s).  A haunted truth not spelled out entirely. Eternal proverbs.  Stories---storied

There are things speaking in the woods.  There are things speaking in vacant city lots.  There are things speaking in the old railroad beds.  There are things speaking in the library. There are things in forgotten small towns ---crossroads that ge drunk on morning fog. Sentient things.

I am speaking about the struggle to hold onto a persistence of awareness that grasps a wholeness.  Elusively elusive.

What are the stories any where telling?  Let us denounce a society that denounces mystery.

The Ghost of Peddler's Run

tha ghost is a lantern down that lonely road

tha man ghost hauls something around down upon
that lonesome road--

whole histories happened down thar
and were forgotten

like how cold a winter can beat
till yer bones are bruised

or the Klutzy toothing of lover's gone

shadows are memorized into shadows

and blood bled wet dew on the grass
whilst the moon was almost full

A headless body
wasz found by
Mary Pickett's woods

found by the creek burble

they buried tha body
without tha head

could not find that fucking

body got buried neath a giant rock

buncha strangers

3 crows cawed 6 times that

that day like a tombstone
where acid rain
devoured marble

 Ghost of fat
rain always gits

will eat you

tha how of that matter
--don't matter-- or give a damn
your dead will get dead

everything wasz written
down so it could die.