backwoods, baby...

you're not from around here, are you?

3 notes

four, four, twenty fourteen…

i’ve taken up residence
in her favorite chair.
pulled it up by the roots
from its warm, cozy spot
in front of the stove
where it dented the carpet,
eternally,
with four perfect, little circles.
i reset it deep
in the far end of the kitchen
where the light is real good
amongst the foliage
of the houseplants
and the woods
just beyond the windows.
we’re situated

right on the ridgeline,
floating over the holler
on top of a hill pushed flat
enough to level a spot
for a trailer to squat.
but the hill gets steep pretty quick
and the boughs of rough, black pine
nd the slender, needled spruce
bob and bounce on a breeze
at the whim
of a cold wind
at a slightly higher elevation.
her funeral flowers

won’t grow in the foothills.
hothouse flowers
that fold
under the weight
of a blackberry winter
around the bend.

Filed under poetry i miss my Gramaw

6 notes

i was brought to you,
in part,
by public broadcasting.
a KET kid
raised by a pack of wolves.
strange animals
sending me messages,
throwing their shaggy heads back
and howling chills up my spine,
out over the air waves
and into my holler.
their path to me was paved
with the help of viewers
like you.
i grew up

on Sesame Street.
basked in the afternoon,
after school sunshine.
i sat
on the stoop
with warm concrete
under my impressionable,
country ass.
only one channel

came in crystal clear
amongst the fuzz
of rural
route
reception.

Filed under poetry National Poetry Month April 2nd

9 notes

i got tacky half moon earrings for my birthday. ‘cause i’m such a grown-up.

i got tacky half moon earrings for my birthday. ‘cause i’m such a grown-up.

Filed under me

5 notes

The hallway is littered
with loitering twenty somethings,
slouching baby faces
with bodies leaned back,
holding up the walls
and hungover.
‘Cause it’s Friday morning
early
and Thursday night got plumb wild
sipping mooonshine,
looking down
over a suitcase college town
from the looming party perch
that is Lockegee.
And my eyes flit,

back and forth
as I tramp down the hallway,
hoping my steps echo
in their hazy heads.
And my eyes land

on the stiff singularity
of proper posture
and a pink coat
and a flat face,
sad eyes deep set
and drifting off
a thousand
and more
miles away.
She wasn’t there,
last night
or any other night.
She was somewhere else,
entirely.

image

Filed under poetry pink damned day to day