words

Posts tagged poem
prologue

The sky cracked open

And out of it fell this land

Those pine Trees

A couple mosquitos

And a cottonmouth snake.

 

And then came my kin folk

A handful of cotton seeds

A whole of of mud

And a bullfrog.

 

It rained for a week

Came a great big flood

Threatened to bring about the end of this brand new creation.

 

Then the last raindrop fell

And the sky closed in on itself

But before it was fully sealed

Somethin slipped out

And slithered to the ground, almost undetected.

 

From the bank the bullfrog watched

Baring witness as this new creature

Sank into the mud

Laughing the whole way down.

 

This was the beginning.

VIII.

He built the moon.

 

Climbed up a ladder,

stuck it up there real good

called it a masterpiece

and when the glue started to crumble

he prayed we’d never find out.

 

Even though he raised us to travel to space

Urged us to explore the universe.

Wanted us

To see

It all.

 

How shocked we were to find that even something

As solid

As the man in the moon

Could be less than perfect

If you looked at it close enough.

VII.

When momma died
They all came and asked
“What are ya gonna do with them?”

And you responded
“Tie 'em in a sack and throw 'em in the river”
And the looks of horror on their faces
Sparked a Parish wide baking fest
And their husbands came laden with
Cakes and pies and apologies and
All of the other stuff that people don’t need when they’ve lost someone.

They all said it,
Men can’t raise children.

trailer trash

“He ain’t trailer trash”

“He is too”

“Living in a trailer don’t make you trailer trash”

“He’s got a security system in his trailer”

“Only cause the meth heads kept breaking in”

“He has three taxidermic heads hanging on the wall”

“You wouldn’t think that was trashy if it were in a real house”

“He ain’t in a real house, he’s in a trailer, and the trailer only has a single wheel and the rest is propped up on cinderblocks, and on Sundays he shoots his pistol from the front step into the pasture and prays to God he hits one of those cowbirds, and he calls it Church.”

“Well…. we all worship in our own ways.”

IV.

The hardest part of leaving

Is packing your bags,

Getting in the truck,

And backing out

Of the driveway.

 

But once you hear gravel flying and home is

Just a silhouette in the rearview mirror

It gets a whole lot easier.

 

All you’ve got to do is put a thousand miles

And a couple of years

Between you and whatever you’re running from

And then staying gone is as easy as waking up every morning,

Putting your boots on,

And going to work.