I must write a Whitmanic poem one day...
I am long shimmering lonesome asphalt
I am outhouses
I am hand-me-downs
I am no electricity need
I am apple tree headstones
I am dirt and gravel and oil...Tha Govner say no sense paving roads to poverty
I am abandoned bird stained churches
I am insanity prowling the family periphery
I am people whose only vice was co-mingling with relatives
I am hillbilly by birth, though we have attempted a family wide disinformation denial campaign for 50 years
I am secrets…destructive, dark and unspoken
I am Dickies green and navy blue work clothes...
I am the disenfranchised…huddling with a passive angry need and properly lubricated weaponry
I am a blues singer wailing perfect word ointments
I am America’s minorities...seething…angry…waiting and denying perfection
I am Poverty, I give a rat’s ass about your skin color…I dine on suffering
I am a man what worked all his life...and left nothing but ghosts of sweat, tears, blood and family
I am a man that sings, writes, paints... history will remember me...and my people
Until fire renders thee pride ash.
I am humility, sweet and crucified.