Category: Americana
Kentucky thoroughbred
wild flower covered
rose wreathed
bluegrass hills
day lilies praying to face the sun
white horse fences on Derby Day
mint julep
drinking celebrities
wearing too much makeup and cloying colognes
spectator hats
pastel bow ties, open toed
espadrille intentions painted perfectly
round pen prancing
such breeding,
& the horses are pedigreed too.
The world of Man O’ War and
My uncle,
Etheridge Spaw,
my family’s last great horseman
elder statesman
until we got a jockey and horsewoman
in my niece, a true princess.
Etheridge had a voice like thunder
booming across a valley
melodic, bellicose, bass baritone
a cowboy hat the size of god
and a cherry wood pipe to match
stories of blood relations
unfurling in his pipe smoke
soothsayer
prince of our family
your memory I cherish
thoughts of you, on a faraway farm
just this side of a Kentucky heaven.
Bless and keep us through the days to come, uncle,
and thank you, kindly.
Categories
Abelard and Heloise activism Americana animals arts astrolabe astronomy baseball writing biology cartography cemeteries chronology comfort dance death destruction deviance domestic violence education epidemeology Europe fairy tales family feminism festivities forensics fucking funerals geneology girl stuff happiness history holidays Hunter S. Thompson iconography journalism local color love poetry medicine muse museums non-fiction Ohio ornithology pandemics performance poetic theory punk red hair in the morning, fucker grab a cab relationship studies religion religious studies reproductive rights rituals science seasons shooting stars society sociology Southern Gothic The British Royal Crown tomes travel writing Urban Legends war weddings womens studies writing
she kept her honor
so he took her like an animal
but my father’s ghost wept
so she went to the men
like a good American
good people don’t want to believe
in visionaries good or bad
especially when you have red clay mud
starved stabbed scabbed over and over
on your grandmother’s dress from being raped just like her
from ft. Sumter to Wounded Knee
he’d never seen that color red come out of a living fertility statue
my veil is torn
the dog is dead
the natives have resumed their drumbeat
Categories
Abelard and Heloise activism affectation Americana Anne Boleyn Art astrolabe astronomy atheism baseball writing battle beauty belief books California cartography cemeteries childhood Christmas chronology cinema civility coffee comedy comfort communication confections crime criminal behavior dance death desserts destruction deviance digital art digital photography divinity domestic violence ecology education electoral process English epicuriosity epidemeology Europe fairy tales feminism festivities film forensics fucking funerals furniture geneology geography girl stuff good reads government government and a lack thereof gratitude happiness health Hell history holidays horror human behavior humanity humor Hunter S. Thompson iconography infidelity insects Jazz journalism Kentucky kindness kinetics Lent life literature local color love love poetry mindfulness mortuary sciences mourning muse mythology nature nightmares non-fiction ornithology pandemics papyrus parenting Paris performance photography physics poetic theory poetry politics pop culture produce psychology public broadcasting publishing punk puppies reading red hair in the morning, fucker grab a cab relationship studies relationships religion religious studies reproductive rights rituals romance science science writing self-care self-love sex sexism sexuality shitty shit shooting stars Short Stories slang society sociology Southern Gothic Southern Living suicide technology thanatology the arts The British Royal Crown theatre theism theology tomes traditions travel writing Uncategorized Urban Legends vice war waste weddings womens studies words writing
Ha!! Me, too…
Categories
Abelard and Heloise activism Americana animals Anne Boleyn astrolabe astronomy baseball writing battle beauty belief bibliophilia biology books botany California cartography cemeteries childhood Christmas chronology cinema civility coffee comedy comfort communication confections corsets crime criminal behavior dance death desserts destruction deviance digital art digital photography divinity domestic violence drawing ecology education electoral process English epicuriosity epidemeology Europe fairy tales family fashion fauna feminism festivities fiction film food forensics fucking funerals furniture geneology geography girl stuff good reads government government and a lack thereof gratitude Halloween happiness health Hell history holidays human behavior iconography Jazz journalism kindness kinetics Lent life literature local color love poetry medicine mindfulness mortuary sciences mourning muse museums Music mythology nature non-fiction Ohio ornithology painting pandemics papyrus parenthood parenting Paris performance photography physics poetic theory politics pop culture produce psychology public broadcasting publishing punk puppies reading red hair in the morning, fucker grab a cab relationship studies relationships religious studies reproductive rights rituals romance science science writing seasons self-care self-love sex sexism sexuality shitty shit shooting stars Short Stories slang society sociology sociopathology Southern Gothic Southern Living suicide technology thanatology the arts The British Royal Crown theatre theism theology tomes traditions travel writing Uncategorized Urban Legends vice war waste weddings women words writing
Poof* Take MY water
Categories
no demons may cross my cumberland gap
you can’t get from her desert south west to kentucky
the archway of plenary indulgence is not her path
demons choked on fear and comeuppance lose their way
oh ye of little faith
was there ever any doubt
Jesus was from Elyria
that Ostara was from Kentucky
and that Lazarus was from Newark, NJ
but he got stuck in traffic for 10 years
on the high roads of rt. 80
it’s never quiet
in the city at night
however i’ve found
if my boots are planted quietly
amidst 3am lamplight
standing in space once occupied
by a storied brick house where my
great grandfather aged 90
lived and died
i can hear elm street recalling sadly
that he left for the hereafter
decades before i arrived
Categories
pinpoint
Hell
is conveniently situated
between Ohio
and California
believe life begins
at conception
and ends at the moment
an AR-15 is unloaded
into the heads of school children
this 30th of May
even the fireworks
sound tired