Southern Legitimacy Statement: I currently live in Nashville (questionable as to the Southerness these days, but I’ll still go with it), and I’ve grown up and spent most of my life in Tennessee (outside Chattanooga; the Northeast corner; born in Jackson). I’ve lived in Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia along the way, as well. Apart from two years (one in Indiana and one in Washington state), I’ve lived my entire life here.
Three Poems
I.
Ode to Out of the Way
People demonize those small specks
on a map when they drive by:
the Beluthahatchies of the world
where the devil drives around
town in a 1936 Hudson Terraplane,
or Ginny Gall, four miles south
of West Hell, where residents
carve up a cow when they crave
one, eat it with the skin still on.
But rumormongers refuse to see
these cities—towns, really, maybe
not even that—for all they are:
it’s true there was a layoff last
week in South Succotash, Somewhere—
a stonecutter, perhaps, or a part-time
school lunchline employee
(the facts are fuzzy)—but their
coastal fisheries feed the surrounding
state, their sustainable aquaculture
the envy of the area; or East Overshoe
where the Doe family has managed
the mayoral office since the city
was incorporated, where American
flags fly on every house, but jingoism
stops seventy-two miles from the city
line; or East Jesus, Nowhere, whose
namesake reminds them not only to love
their neighbors, but those Samaritans
who don’t stop, as well, where Joe
Murphy puts postcards in the mail
every day, covets only communication
with a wider world; or even Bum
Fuck, Egypt, the town with the most
racist name around, but with semi-
professional theatre productions
that promote minority voices
and give insight into the immigrants
they welcome, knowing what it
feels like to be nothing
more than a stereotype used to dehumanize
someone who deviates from the norm.
II.
The Congregation Was Waiting
He was like a person
in a parable, an anecdote
the devout used to warn
the unconverted against
allowing the wealth of
the world to smother their
souls, silence uncomfortable
and unfashionable truths.
He worshipped at the church
of convenience, the tabernacle
of time management; discontented
with his daily bread, he negotiated
for extra loaves, not so he could
save, but so he could say he had
more. He never wanted much
more, only required one
more raise, one
more bedroom, one
more woman, one
more stock dividend, one
more of whatever he wanted,
looking for the one
more moment of contentment
he last felt when he turned twelve
and began his business mowing
lawns, made his first
twenty dollars—the framed first
step toward the American greed
that guided his life. He invested,
he said, not in interiority, but
in what would last, yet he sold
what can’t be bought, cures
for maladies of the spirt, not the body,
sold happiness and humor, love
and longevity, cornered the marketing
in snake oil, everybody willing to buy,
to believe in a man who made himself
walk upright when he only wanted
to slither.
III.
Grandeur
Dressed like an extra from any
early-nineties movie—faded
flannel shirt; jeans holey
from wear, not design;
even a beaten-up bandana
he lifted from his grandfather’s
stash for a do-rag—he haunted
used bookstores like a
librarian’s ghost who couldn’t
countenance any book left
unwanted. He always left
with the largest bags of books
he could carry, like a starter
kit for intellectuals, as he tried
to carry the wisdom of the world
in his arms, hug that knowledge
to his chest to change his heart
and mind, become somebody he
had never known. He saw what
his one day would look like:
a house with busts of Beethoven
and Mozart, The Thinker and
Shakespeare on top of barrister
bookshelves with his initials
etched in each door’s glass;
colleagues who came for dinner—
something French he hasn’t found
yet—finished with a glass of wine
he can’t buy from the local liquor
store, everyone agreeing what
a good year it was, paired with
the perfect dessert—something
chocolatey, decadent and dense,
like the articles he contends with,
comprehension eluding him—as
he sits on the sofa sharing
thoughts on what he’s reading
or the latest political development,
thoughts he doesn’t have yet,
thoughts he knows he could have,
in time, thoughts he fears
will never come to him.
