Staying in some sub-par motel in North Carolina. John Denver would not be amused if the front desk clerk came knocking on his door at 2:30 am because he forgot to sign a rate slip. But I ain't John Denver and neither is my ma, we're small-time, yet in our minds we're living large, larger than the cockroach that might come crawl for a cuddle. Cockroaches don't knock on the door and scare two women, but they creep like shadows till you feel their grimy footsteps across your sleeping body. I felt that once in a place I once lived in South Georgia. Oh, the signs of the South. It whistles and blows, sticky, sunshine carries rain and the sky will look like it's on fire, even when it's not. The peaches are indeed sweet, the peanuts are boiled and some people are angry. But there's something to be said for having the passion of anger, the shiver of fear or the drowsiness of remorse, the quick glance of unrest. The South is not a flat-line on a heart monitor where every day is just lovely (even if the folks tell you it most certainly is, such sweet folks them folks are). Spontaneity strikes when the pecan falls from the tree and knocks you on the head, or when someone falls into a fire because he's had too much whiskey and his friends are too drunk to drag him out. Spontaneity strikes when someone pulls the trigger because you're just too white or just too damn black. Gray's a boring color and that's why you hear folks singing the blues down alleyways with rippled washboards, only to hear a cheap imitation years later from someone who all of a sudden just felt it because his girlfriend just dumped him and he learned a new chord on his johnson. No matter how much I may deny it, the South is home to me. Grits are the cure for a nasty hangover, the skirts flatter the hips and the friends never ever let you down. I'm thankful for this connection, even when the stakes are down and someone's glaring at me or I'm shooting daggers right back. It's love in a twisted way, like forcing to share toys with siblings instead of pointing at the sunshine and complaining it's so pretty. I liked the West till I got bored, I'm curious of the North in the summer and the East is pretty familiar, depending on how East we're talking. But the South is its own animal, with sharp and crooked teeth, yet with an aching desire to be fondled and scratched behind the ears.
The backseat's not good enough
nor is being tied up in a trunk
waiting for the death
or screaming to save us.
I'm tired of listening to that station
or beating myself up
and perfecting the art of begging,
Change it, please, change it
It's my turn now.
Hit the brake, change your seat
and learn your place with me.
I can't ride bitch anymore
When someone tells me,
"I can make the time for you"
it's the song I want on repeat
while my fingers stroke the steering wheel.
Kind of makes me wish the ride would never end.
Words like that make good company
God gave us vaginas so why don't we use them?
sometimes i like to speak with my hands because my tongue's too tired
and the knots in my knees have crept up toward my thighs
reminding me to hurry along and thank my creator
for giving me another source of communication
hi there young man
i wish i could explain this better but i can't
because i understand that you are delicious and naive
an apple ripe from the tree, eager to please
afraid to be tasted, so i settle for your lips first
if you're kind enough to offer them
and when you do it's intoxicating
little baby apple's gone fermented
i'm drunk off your spit, a cat in heat
careful not to sink my teeth
and harden you
for you are young, beautiful, capable
and the world is your apple
while only a rind to the rest of us
rotting, flavored memory
with seeds in our teeth
First it made sense and then it didn't
how come someone can plow along inside you till you're numb
counting stars on ceiling cracks
hoping this time it would be different
i yearn to feel something
as though going against the rules would prick my legs like grain
and leave me itching, or wishing to do it all over again
as though they weren't just cracks, they were slanted eyes
staring at my core, reaching inside and pressing the switch
so i could light up like somebody's christmas tree
or dance like the captive in the jewelry box
eager to shine like lemon on a glass
yearning to be squeezed, devoured, rinsed
and tasted all over again, knowing it just won't be as good without me
cracks, layers of sunlight
reaching inside and making me feel like i'm the sexiest woman in the world
and there's no place like home, like this time
or the next time when things might be different
i have thighs like her
wouldn't you imagine?
that this was once considered beautiful.
now we call them tree trunks
or the limbs of an elephant
as though being compared to nature is ugly.
she looks so relaxed.
this picture is my favorite
it reminds me to celebrate the things i used to curse.
You're a whisper in my ear when I make attempts to move forward
sleeping beside a head of hungry thoughts.
I'm challenged, thrilled and frightened at the same time
as though a leap of faith would only get me halfway there.
I'm swallowed by decency, encouraged to do only right
and sway the fine lines that blur the things that are wrong
and the things that just don't make sense just yet.
If I catapult myself into the arms of something open
instead of banging my head against your closed doors
will I be taunted by echos or comforted by quiet relief
you tell me, whisper it to me
lawd knows i like to ramble. thanks for reading.
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