There is a girl called Southern Ugly,
She often faces the mirror- Believing
that the reflection must be oneself.

But a woman’s essence
Lives in the light, not in our eyes.
Mother Mary, dressed in blue-

Your daughter sees her face, knowing
That she is not first to be saved for Heaven.
We come second to God

(Though Man did not refuse the apple).
Mother said, “You are a southern belle,
Just baptized in the bayou.

****** in the water,
The depths of the swamp do not foster
Power nor Fortune

But your birth, the prayer of the Moon.
And like a cypress knee
That has not yet broken the surface,

You’re hidden in wisdom unknown."

Flocked stitching looks just like the birds,
swooping and swerving, finding their way
to a better life south. They leave here
to a brand new world where flowers bloom
to a pure, dazzling white
and animals sing with the wind.
There, they will live in vivid colour
and cry with fervent joy.
They will rejoice in the pure green
and unite in song. When the time comes,
they will leave their southern home
and join us once more in the north,
where swallows skim the weary grass
and the spirits hum their ancient melodies.
Somewhere along the line, they will almost forget
about that paradise they found
so long ago, the paradise
that allowed them to outshine
an eternal winter. But, like all life,
they'll find themselves in a haze,
with blurred edges and foggy minds,
wandering over borders
with a thirst
to find the heat again.

When I finally find
myself in the dirt
say
some 52 years from now
give my lampshades
and frail autographs
to my lady
with her married scorn
and scarred hands
that have held my own.

Only in death
will I see her clearly
as the day I met her
and
in our plantation house
you can find a tin cup
a stray look and
her sentiments
I never overlooked
quite carefully put.

Her ancient beauty
quite unnerving
and her eyes
ever fearful of my demise.

In my crystal clear
version of the way things were
you'll see her letters
that I have kept
still breathing hard
and holding fast
against my chest.

For
I have never loved another
quite like her
sharp teeth and red lipstick
on my dress
and
when we were married
the whole town came to see
what true love could
really mean
to us:
as thieves
as unbelievers
in all things.

Constant sorrow will follow
America
but not her
immortal and etched
into every doorway
of the south
and inside of my body
breathing out.

So much for I have lived
to succumb
to become the dirt
she dances on
to watch for her
in every crowd
spell her name on my tongue
breathing loud
and fast inside of her love
and her blouse
that stands forever
inside of our plantation house.

Many would take it
as the midway station to heaven
nineteen hundred miles up
can heaven be far away?

Some would even think
that sixty three million years
is eternal enough
especially for those hopeless potbellied souls
knowing that it’s impossible for them to pass through
the tiny eye of a needle
here, God is not
the Final Judge

Of course there are details to be worked out
for instance, should there be racial segregation
like that in the old South Africa
so as to preserve the purity of the ashes?
Or, as long as they can afford to pay
should even dogs and cats be allowed?


* Many years ago a Houston space service company had a plan to send human ashes into space.  According to the plan, ten thousand human remains would orbit the earth at a distance of nineteen hundred miles for a minimum of sixty-three million years.

It's time for our nation
to join this demonstration
to promote the call
for Zuma to step down once and for all
These protests Are not about the colour of your face
but coming together as the human race
For one united idea,
I don't know how to make it clear
That whether you're black or white,
that is not our fight,
our fight is for the right to come together as a country and unite
We unite as a country to call, you zuma, to step down once and for all
Today is your time
I shouldn't have to rhyme
For you to realize
That the only thing our president tells us are stories and lies
Our country has sunk, we are officially junk
This must be a curse , it can't possibly get any worse
But today is the day for South Africans to say
That Zuma must fall and sa must rise, that my friends, is the real prize

A country that the world left behind
when rubber could be made by man.
The country that slaves found home.

I love this country
that I haven't set
foot on it's soil
yet.

I want to walk it's
dusty trails into
rainforests and
hidden tribes.

I want to sing with
all the vagabonds
ragamuffins &
castaways.

It's a country unknown
a frontier to discover.
A place to call home
maybe...

I buzz down Bourbon St.,
bar-hopping to and fro in pursuit of some
sought-after nerve.

I’ll pass street entertainers performing
various tricks and trades
and I’ll envy not their boater hats
filled with cash, but rather the
attention they command from mothers
and fathers alike, on-looking and inebriated.
                              Maybe father would’ve looked at me
                              with the same awe, had I donned
                              a pair of stilts or covered my body in
                              tinman silver, for his
                              failure to pay me mind
                              certainly wasn’t a result of
                              under-intoxication.

I digress. The thirteen blocks that stretch between
Canal & Esplanade Avenue host
a distinct pattern of storefronts:
                    Bar, *******, bar, gift shop,
                    bar, *******, bar, gift shop,

and so on.
I’ll stop in nearly every other one,
and the taste in my mouth
will start to remind me of the street’s namesake.

With a scant blouse on and
a batting of my bedroom eyes,
a man will inevitably strike up a
“conversation” with me.
While I unconsciously engage
in repartee, I’ll wonder to myself
what must be wrong with him
that he would hone in on some
despondent fool like me.

He’ll continue to ply me with drinks
until a taxi cab takes me away,
and through a backseat window
cracked open, I’ll hear
New Orleans sing
while I sigh.


W.M.S.
2017

north
find me where I'm most alone
before my fleeting feelings
turn to stone

east
don't let me turn the other way
if you ever think I'm slipping
hold my gaze and make me stay

west*
hold the coffee to my nose
the warmth smells like home
and keeps me close

south
don't you ever say you're sorry
for taking care of me
for helping to melt away
the ice I was meant to be

*be my compass
guide me for our sake
for you're already the direction
I want my life to take