Friday, November 17, 2006


I do recall -
But with great difficulty now being as it is nigh fifteen odd year
Since the winds of fate blew me away from that land of inclement clouds
To the land of soft mornings where mist arises from the warm earth
A glowing shroud over the graves of thick skinned negroes
And white skinned fools who killed for harsh corn mash bourbon
And a fist of tobacco.

My eyes once were filled by a grey landscape of grey people with dark blue eyes
and wrinkled foreheads, thin lips and mustaches.
And my eyes which were as blue as any man's turned grey
When I crossed that cold river that runs through coal and iron
And I saw the flat lands of Mississippi and the long overgrown fences

The fallow ground, the derelict house, the old mule were my new companions,
The creek bed, my bed, where I dug with bleeding fingers and broken nails
Into the round holes of the crawdad.
I did work while I could, and for a time, I could
I retained some humanity. But I could not keep from fighting.

I found myself, passing through the tall grass, I was like any other beast,
Infested with ticks and fleas and lice and indifferent to the skeeter
Which plague the better sort.

All this - long time - until my heart started beating again
And I walked into the mission house in Jackson.
Lying in a filthy bed I began to read Faulkner,
And the old man died there in that mission.
I grieved for him a little, a pitied him beyond anything else in this world.
And when he was buried, and I was at last free,
I walked out onto the street.
And for the first time, I looked North.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Good Sir Reb

The mad dog in mad fashion howls,
and acid gut doth churn in the bowl;
this man of honor, he roams this earth
like the razorback in deep, mud-hole bearth.

He was raised like the pit bull,
with the taste of blood in his gullet,
welling hunger within not near full
yet with sharp eye and aim he places the bullet.

This man of honor, it was planted deep
Yes Sir, yes M'am, toss and turn, no sleep.
He'd open doors for the less polite
he'd help the stranger in the darkest night.

The Southern man with his rebel's cross,
roaming the Southland, his blood like the frost.
From clan of old country to kin of today,
his hands were all weathered, fingers they were splayed.

Much work, much agony but with it shagrin,
for some Yankee she-devil to beguile him again.
There is no pleasure in pain, it deep within
the pain does not surface for dishonor the sin.

So he roams the mad earth in the darkest of night,
he seeks only comfort from Eden's white light.
For this modern-day gallant, riding white steed
he thinks not of dishonor, for in it the soul itself would bleed.

With love of the country and love of the land,
this Knight of the valley who'd joined with the band.
The brotherhood of righteous, and in it delight,
for this man of the Southland, this modern white knight.

So onward and upward he travels beyond,
through dark northumberland, and rank, filthy pond.
Through Satan's veiled plight, and the craigs of the hills
he'd ride fast as lightning, chasing enemies for thrill.

Some say he's a ghost of long-past rivalry,
to others a haint of some misbegotten chivalry.
But the way of the man is chiseled in heart
like the mason or sculptor beauty in rock split apart.

While no sword could split him (for his soul already rent)
in living all the pleasure, and the pleasure now spent.
So hail to the enemy, as he runs and he flees,
this ghost of the Southland shall drive him to knee.

Will his honor secure him? Will mercy prevail?
To this Knight of honor, would he drive the nail?
With the Way as atonement, and the word as his bread,
He rides chasing heathens to that land of the dead.

Onward and upward, white knight, white steed
the enemy he beckons and plants evil seed.
Weak minds he will tangle in an intricate knot
manipulating their hearts in diabolic plot.

With the truth a rock for your foundation
you'll ride the wind, oh hope of haggard Nation.
With the enemy's dark lies still ringing in ear
let not evil talon pierce brethren heart with fear.

Of rising and falling, the waves perservere
and pound solid shoreline (as in constant arrear).
We owe lying beast his one final stroke,
to cut off his head and cast it afloat.

So stand for the righteous and stand for the true,
your heart beats with fire and will never be blue.
Rattle their cages and poke them with brands,
these, Lucifer's liars, misbegotten cads.

Monday, November 06, 2006

The Black Prince


Three score years behind, perhaps
a dozen more ahead
The balance of my life now falls
Amongst my friends: the dead

The men I’ve sent to march to war
However just the cause
Stained the earth as they now stain hell
In Cerberus’ bloody jaws

To me was left a vast empire
The peak of mortal wealth
The promise of my father’s crown
Of long life and of health

Squandered that which was bestowed
On vain and feckless aims?
My empire shrinks before me now
And blackened is my name.

My folk despised throughout the world
My foes too bold and strong
My enemies win victory
Though ever false and wrong

Like a million rats descending
On storehouse and on field
The enemy, though base and weak
In numbers, will not yield

And now my friends all step aside
My people turn away
They feel betrayed; I sought too much
Their debt, my loss defrays

At last my end appears too soon
But leaves me with one claim
That all the evil that I’ve done
I did in God’s good name

Friday, November 03, 2006

Southern Rising


Where some see lost memosa trees
replaced by rows of bradford pears
and countless yankee restaurants
and yankee homes and yankee airs
those same declare: the South is dead
this South never to rise again
for how could Southern pride revive
where yankee emptiness has been?

But strange, as if the soil's a sun
whose rays, unseen, but still in force
do penetrate the yankee heart
and though are stained, yet fend off worse
Thus yankees, in their locust clouds
pave everything from field to fen
become, within a dozen years
akin to Southern Gentlemen

And so the brashest brooklyn cad
you plant beside Fort Loudon's shore
becomes somewhat acceptable:
civilized, if still a boor
His children, bred in Southern skies
Unlike their father, show it when
without hope of recompense
they open doors for fellow men

Thursday, November 02, 2006

I am a Leech Field

I am a Leech Field

A poem by Inkki Garibaldi delivered at the opening of the brand new Tater Holler Township Squash and Turnip Monument in front of a crowd of mainly four to five year olds. Inkki was later asked to apologize which she refused to do, saying that her art speaks for itself.

I am a Leech Field

I am a Leech Field
Rising up through me is all sorts of (expletive)
Across my soggy mud
The dogs chase cats and cats chase mice
I am a compost heap where the possums root
And worms and rolly pollys dig out
citizens together in the warm smelly earth
Showing the dry grassy wheat
what it means to be moist
I kept the ground warm through the winter.

I am an old rusty bucket
With holes so big
You can see right through
And tetanus growing on each metal tooth
Rutted turf
Discarded melon rinds
Cinder blocks
And a broken shovel

I am a dead bird
An old baseball
Dog vomit grass
A worm infested tomato

I am a roughly rectangular area of approximately 1/6 of an acre
I am a couple of broken plastic spoons
I am a half-buried tire
Half-filled with water
Birthplace to ten thousand mosquitos
Bringing rhthym to the garden each time it rains

I have watched the birds fly South in the winter
And fly north again in the summer
Crapping all over me both ways.

I am not a son of a (expletive) like the front yard
Mowed and aerated like a (expletive) prissy (expletive)
I will not use the color of my grass to cover the (expletive) underneath
I am not a (expletive) garden whore letting little garden gnomes (expletive) me in the (expletive)

I am a Mulch pile
Mouldering in peace