People in the South used to drown kittens in metal buckets, you'd see it in the creeks, the wagon wheel ruts, broken rocks and strewn candle-thistle, the pine groves and wasted remnants of a barn. Snarling boards and brutal agony in each tanned nail, Churches outnumber the cows , eloquently decayed steeples and shack-rust chocked full of spider-webs, the silken threads and lemony fingertip of God digging holes in the red clay.
Sun blasts over the blood maples, the slender roads and mildew plantations, the majestic oaks and battalions of water-bugs, water moccasins, the rotten stumps and fungus barrows, It's another Armagh, frost fallen pastures and simple work, dank lumber rooms and leaden ink jars, black root and briar chewed fences, armies of slick crows on patrol, funny flowered accents and dirty patched clothes, farmed windmills and poetic ponds polluted with tiger-lily.
Arms open, acres of bleached bones in the snow, you die old and suffocated in amber-orange cedar caskets, liver spots and curled from poisoned kidneys, murky as well-water and quiet as the chalk-graves, a reactionary, God is reactionary, fearful and angry winds blowing, buggy-tornadoes and that city of shopping carts, the awful city of sub-mentals, robotic clones and plastic money, velvet inch worms and parasitic plagues, thank God, you literally thank God you live far away, far from the falling bombs and erotic destruction, the medical factories of locked doors and unbearable suffering in the streets, the crawling bodies naked with disease, raw leprosy and vermin, the hungry and poor, the wealthy and lascivious soldiers, wide-eyed and ready to dazzle, the bewilderment of fools and one-legged animals; the dead souls out here in the middle of nowhere, watching the stars crash into the lake, the white yarn in the sticks, a remote paradise of homemade jelly and sweet trees swarmed with magnetic bees, blankets of kelp-weed, stitched lacerations and a worn rail-cap, worn hands and worn boots, muddy and left on the porch, the tire swings, the drowsy drawing room and classical books on the wood table, music from every room, the sincere and playful array of a stark piano, your blissful accent, you talk like a well-versed poem, a rare smile like childlike authors full of innocent harmony and an unthinkable beauty.
