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sepia toned lithograph

i find myself longing

to live inside

a sepia toned lithograph

from the civil war


you’d be shipped to the mysterious

far off north

while i embalmed bodies

along side Thomas Holmes

my apron covered with

the sins of man

on blood soaked battlefields of the south


after a thousand letters written

and lessons learned

you’d come back home to me

with half yourself blown off

so i would decide

as a good woman does

to love you

all the more


Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

mama, he’s crazy and he scares me, but i want him by my side

the moment i first laid eyes on him
i knew i was in love
and that one day
he would try to kill me
but i’m southern as fuck
so i stuck along for the ride

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

easter dresses with plunging necklines

having been born into a family of baptists
i was taught catholics would burn in hell

even at a young age
a bit extreme
over nothing but a change of venue

and i had no means of understanding
those who took a vow of celibacy

in a southern baptist church
the preacher and the deacons
were who the women flirted with

to me
remembering the sabbath day
church attendance boards
tithing totals
fried chicken
and gossip socials

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends writing

burning flowers

if your derby hat was on fire
i would douse it
with kerosene

Jazz Music poetry Short Stories Uncategorized Urban Legends

being southern

can keep
your doctors
hot yoga
chemical pills
power walks passed power plants
designer greecian yogurts
seaweed slurping hipster assholes
forgotten manners
and cast iron statues of sigmund freud’s cock

no, sir
i’ll take this bourbon
these biscuits
bacon apples grits n’ gravy
and a ride on my horse
to see what my wise old red injun granddaddy
is keepin’
in his smoking pouch

because i’m not afraid to die
of being southern

we have a saying down here
bless your heart

but what it translates to
is a smiling
go fuck yourself

poetry Short Stories Uncategorized

the day aunt lena jumped in the well

mausoleum chambers

fill my mother’s house


the lavender room

with grandmother luvenia’s bed

and soft pink crystal light fixture from the old house on fishing creek

is where the spaw and bates families are entombed


the bed spread woven from funeral ribbons and loss

cherry framed antique portraiture

hang as illuminated death masks of my ancestors

behind the old convex glass


shoe leather faces

whip stitched lines

and battle scars

their backs curved

from bending to god’s will


their great depression was their existence


i look into the women’s changed eyes

who lost children


they had faded to a barely living shade of gray

known only to battlefields

and beds sickened with scarlet fever


country life is a sort more merciless than most

particularly to the feminine persuasion


mother swears the cicadas were screaming in the june apple trees

that pot steam august day meant for sewing bicentennial dresses

the day aunt lena jumped in the well


i often walked by the sealed haunted thing as a little girl

lungs filling with fear

wondering why that day

she chose to turn potable water into tears


was it the four year old daughter

named venus

born and died in the month of april

buried beside the church


had the clocks her late husband made wound her tightly enough to do it


or was it simply senility

i’ll never know


when had she stopped hearing the piano music

what had she suffered

that an abyss seemed somehow more comforting

than another day lost in the valley of stones


i close the memory of her with a crystal doorknob


cousin leland went into the well after the body

but her soul

never resurfaced