comments (0)Before he became a barber, Larron was a student at an old University in an old town. In the center of that town were a few lush acres of grass and trees. "The Square" was a haven for itchy college kids.
Larron often made way to the outside bench, under an elderly Magnolia tree that everyone agreed was the biggest they'd ever seen. There were fresh scratches beneath the lowest of the fat, droopy limbs. Young people liked to climb and swing and beat the tree as far as they were willing to reach. Under and around those scratches were faded marks a generation older. Larron both hated and loved the scars—they were evidence of happy times for anonymous authors, but also vestiges of abuse and apathy toward a beautiful, living thing.
And this was his problem. He saw the good and bad in all. He could not decide the right or wrong of a thing, he strained to locate both, and any ambiguities. He found the dual morality in his friends, family, government, grocers, mailmen, and, of course, his most taxing subject, himself. He could not be wholly good if his mother's life somehow suddenly depended on it. Larron constantly imagined such rough wagers in his head. If only a prophet or a martyr would put a gun to his temple and propose such a thing. Maybe he would try harder. Maybe his problem was simply a struggle of will.
In any event, Larron thought about things too much, and he knew he did. A solution still eludes him. And he has never stopped thinking about the tree, or the bench on which he always sat. Before he left that old town, Larron found a deep appreciation for those two wooden bulks. He missed them more than anything he had seen or heard, or any person he had met in those four years. He misses them like a first love. What makes him even sadder, though, are the marks on the old Magnolia. Not because they exist, but his everlasting indecision about their worth.
An archipelago between seasons,
I've learned the vernacular of clams
and gulls but fish remain inaudible.
In the salty sweet morning smear
of the coast, I wake the sand.
Dog prints in beach dust.
Pollution, natural and manmade,
clogs my toes.
Through cold pools, still sleepy,
I slink then wade.
Scaring baby rays that look like brown spades,
I scream then laugh.
The tide ruffles the pink surface of saltwater,
sparks gold, a sun winking.
My nipples squeeze when wet.
Armpits drink bobbing soda,
and I remember that I can't swim.
The lemon sun pokes my face some more
but my toes turn, gripping shore.
To be an island.
Ned Cobb was a good man who hid his name for no good reason when a white college kid paid a visit in the middle of his busy season and said
"I'm recording the voices of poor ol' boys and maybe you'd like to be heard."
"Yes, sir, the voice of the blowin' wind is too soft for Tallapoosa."
He'd been bewildered and confused by three hundred years of abuse. Cursed into the womb by his worn out father, Ned was taught to go no farther than the plow at his shoes. So he pushed the dirt, but also plucked the feathers from the absurd Jim Crow bird.
"I'm not afraid of Alabama! Hear the howlin' train that carries my new bosses home! Walk in the sullen field they gave me in the corner! In the corner turn around and listen—my masters' tongues whip and moan.
"My cotton was stolen for a fistful of nickels by those foul, fickle bastards. The Union helped us weave ourselves some dignity from the tatters of our dusty, brown souls. So we did, and my loyalty to anything else ain't never comin' back.
"And now I'm old. By the same rail track, in the rusty arms of this wooden barn, I remember. The white men said, 'That nigger ain't a thing more than his daddy was, but a displaced slave too bold.'
"But I came up. I don't hold anything against those who treated me ill, though they might hate me still. I was the man I wanted to be. The man my masters didn't want to say was real. I became the man I needed."
Ned Cobb (1885-1973) was a black man in Alabama. He is also known as Nate Shaw. Ned succeeded in life despite mistreatment and the horrible racism of the American South during the Jim Crow years. He fought constantly against the blackguards who hated his skin. The man is an inspiration.
The college kid I mention in my above free verse is Theodore Rosengarten, who wrote a most interesting biography of Ned. All God's Dangers: The Life of Nate Shaw is about 600 pages, but I wrote a much shorter summary of Nate's struggle, which can be read here.
A vault packed with old paper is under my bed. Years ago, when I was even younger, I wrote terrible poems that now fill that box. The more they rhymed, the worse they were. I scratched the paper in this way whenever I felt sad or hopeless. Nobody ever read them, including me. Each served its purpose for a moment and was then buried.
I didn't care that I was a mediocre writer. My little poems were beautiful because they were sincere. Honest creativity is worthy regardless of skill.
I'm still compelled to write lines sometimes. They're still terrible messes of stumbling verse.
While I was sitting in the hospital beside my dead grandfather, I wrote this:
The little plate
is forming under
pressure
with numbers' curves
to be fastened, and
complete
something soon unspeakable
for everyone.
That little plate
calculating the dreadful function
to settle inevitable
heartache,
a redundant instrument of reminder
for something that cannot be forgotten,
to be bolted to the loving and cold
reality.
My great-uncle was rich by way of 100 acres of land beside a lake. His father gave him both the land and his name, Jackson. He was my grandmother's brother, kind and humble. His fortune never ruined his character, though it easily could have with other men. He was a millionaire for certain by the time he reached fifty. Just before his eighty-sixth birthday he died of heart failure.
There was nothing in his will for anyone. I got nothing, my father got nothing. His brothers and sons and daughters got nothing. The thing was, he had given away all his riches while he still breathed. I think he turned most of it into silver dollars while I was a boy; he always put one in my hand when he would see me in his fields or at church.
One time, just before his heart failed, he came around with his old truck. He had driven that truck for twenty-five years, longer than I'd been alive. It was rusty and the horn didn't work. I took my seat and he slowly wheeled us to town. We went to the Deluxe Grill and had corn dogs. We talked about Ronald Reagan and baseball.
There was nothing in his will for anyone. I got nothing, my father got nothing. His brothers and sons and daughters got nothing. The thing was, he had given away all his riches while he still breathed. I think he turned most of it into silver dollars while I was a boy; he always put one in my hand when he would see me in his fields or at church.
One time, just before his heart failed, he came around with his old truck. He had driven that truck for twenty-five years, longer than I'd been alive. It was rusty and the horn didn't work. I took my seat and he slowly wheeled us to town. We went to the Deluxe Grill and had corn dogs. We talked about Ronald Reagan and baseball.
My first sunset of 2007. Not bad.
Lindsey and I had spent the day leisurely. I'm presently consumed by lengthy research project and she accompanied me during an interview in the morning. The rest of the day was dedicated fishing, taking photos, and just being together.
This one was taken near my parents' house, right beside the Steel Bridge, as everyone around here calls it (guess why!). A flock of geese were coming in for a quick landing and was able to pull off the cap and snap two shots. Three to four seconds after this, they splashed down. Don't you love nature?
Large and on black recommended
Looks best on black
I've always been a very solitary person, you know, like those oysters. I grew up in a little country place and no other kids lived very close until I was about twelve. I was born shy anyway, so I don't know if it would've made much difference. While growing up I kept to myself whenever I could, save for family times, church, and stuff like that. I painted imaginary worlds in my head, drew, played in the dirt.
I haven't changed a great deal. I'm still socially inept at times, but not so completely dunderheaded anymore—I can speak to someone without stumbling into a wall or down stairs.
Still, I'm a loner. I think taking pictures helps me a great deal. Whatever I mean to say, I can show it with a photo.
In this image I mean to say: I'm awful lonely at times. I often think about the past, and whenever I do, I miss everybody. Some things have changed so much after just a little time. Although I'm trying to teach myself to avoid missing the good things in the present, I can't help but long for the past. I miss it.
Another good reason to take pictures.
We find something here
that is only here.
We travel roads that are green
with rain.
Faith is loyal,
running through green
and hits you
like voices tumbling across a lake.
Stakes with moss and old butterflies
keep the woolly fields
from our enemy.
The sounds that can be heard only here
are heard.
Bells ring through the morning fog
and dew trembles again
on the green.
Steel strings hum a zig-zagging
stumble, stumble between brick
and speckled chemical layers of a century.
They are reminded of the strength of youth,
of train noise,
of the origin of tales.
In the middle the green finds the beam
through cracks of life.
We find faces on a plane
of color
in ironic nights of black and white.
The green, the damp, the quiet, the light
are clear
in the ways they were before
in other places.
And senses rest.
I drew these while in British Literature.
a dedication to a stretch of history
when the mind and heart of each puzzled
with a novelty
sincere for a spell of ignored disproportion
my stance was unsettled by your breaths of notion
a ception of me
lashed
with a drumming of knolls,
vaulting on casual theoretic planes
Doting circles on unconvinced spheres—
contours sweet with dew, and naive—
rebound with sundry poses
and fears
and fading marvel
But the miracle of experience!
Summer turns brown
all around
the edges of leaves
and the smell of decay
won't get away
from everything.
I love
the death of summer
in October.
But only because
I know it will return
and burn
on the faces
of sunflowers
again.
After all this time the moon still casts.
The light reflects just as it has
since British soldiers rushed with yells
and met the mud where they coldly fell.
The colossal sea still beats the shore
with the same immensely strident roar.
Water runs salty where rivers drain,
and blackened clouds, still loud, remain.
The stars compliment the evening chill,
while wind carves the sand still,
as wings in which again contest—
birds the gusts of time forget.
Flowers advertise the life they carry
as the flush of Fall fails to vary,
and the snow to follow does thus,
As cold and pale as anything ever is, or was.
Piercing words emerge too quickly
And linger on too certainly,
Taunting the mind to brawl
And daring to recall.
flesh indebted to every breath
a person can't await to shimmer
to pause as such is done for death
the light of life grows ever dimmer
She does not stop, she does not want,
but to follow my steps.
Asking not my past, or noting my flaws,
apathetic towards contrast.
If I could travel to a time which none recall,
Free from the superior's grasp, no longer as time's thrall,
Simply displaced to when none think me familiar,
Lonely Heart I would seek out and soothe her tender quiver.
Pity escorts the pain produced by this impossibility,
Emotions which you suffered much that I long to free,
From parted hearts, from glances lost, anguish enters every instant,
Sorrow spawns from time departed, rendering life amiss.
Your mind is such as evergreen, beautiful and constant;
Imperfections dot the noble form that is your body,
And so it is the worst burden that prevents your due splendor,
Intangible items birth the want that hinders.
I just finished a picture of Carlyn. I was bored out of my mind, so I figured I might as well try to draw again. I started at 9:30. I sat on the floor, he was on the couch watching television. I sketched the basics for fifteen minutes and spent the next couple hours in my room watching TV while I did the details. The last thing I drew before this was this horse for Sam on December 28, 2000. I consider myself decent. There's certainly tons of room for improvement. I can look at something and draw it fairly well, nothing special, but I can't draw anything from memory. I guess I got it from my dad. He can draw really well. I'd sure love to paint, but I suck at it. I'll just stick with pencils. Anyway, here's the drawing. Screwed up the mouth. And everything else.
Silver displayed her, and she was pleased with her mild way:
the wrists—thin, pale stripes transparent without weight.
Her precise, metallic touch little by little rides runny as she traces.
Ferris wheels ride loop-the-loop around her bare axis arms;
Shiny, sticky charcoal curls of her mane bound and rebound.
Overcast eyes see nothing!
Her dry throat sucks and spits air in her dynamic surprise.
There is abruptly a future, a spill of rude insights and wide assumptions.
A striped window makes her a slick zebra
with natural bumps of pallid gloss.
Her creaks crack musically sweet in tune with the tugs of her thought
and the tow of her heart.
His hostile bulk.
Crisscrossing excess--yellow and chocolate threads--shape a net of milky light in the night beside grubby windows while two heads dream, minds restlessly waiting to wake.
Her fingers sleepwalk his fleshy margin. His increase pulls her eyelids and she absorbs his merciless will.
Two masses mix and fuse it seems infinitely again by scorched, gasping death and the mangled form ruins.
August 3, 2002
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August 1, 2002
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July 22, 2002
Sam left me bruised, confused, and indifferent. I think I'm finally back to who I was. Parts of me wish I had never met her, but I can't let myself feel that way; it would be unhealthy for a number... [More]
June 2, 2002
Conscious slumber holds death's hand, A waste of being lacking expectancy, Not to attain matters planned Nor to ever wholly breathe again. Slightest verve could pierce the layer That smothers elusive faith, For which infinity would bargain, and strive to... [More]
March 13, 2002
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March 7, 2002
Her face was checkered as a chess board, Red and white running where tore, As she lay belly up on the sand— Her face begging as she stared at me. Only one to greet her at such a time; I... [More]
March 6, 2002
The grass' crunch invites my feet to join the rest of me In the chill of the flaming morning fog setting my lungs ablaze Discovering the scene asleep outside still as can be Save the ducks on the water in... [More]
January 18, 2002
My words could never say to you all the things I mean, I could never bring to you everything you've given me, My words could never tell you all the things I feel, And my love for you with words... [More]
January 16, 2002
When I see the clouds of crimson thrust upon the sun, Or snow atop the mighty mountains over the hills of dun, I know any thing of beauty between the earth and skies, Cannot compare to the sight that is... [More]
December 3, 2001
I found a vault of old and lousy poems I wrote. Here are a few. They're each horrible in form, but they attempt to show how I was feeling at different times. These are from 1999 or earlier. Can you... [More]
November 30, 2001
I look at the earth so large and beautiful, And I see the world, so small and hateful, All the diversity corrupting opportunity. Ants on a tight red balloon. I look on the humans living in sin, And I see... [More]
January 11, 2001
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January 8, 2001
With a militia of scales pinning the difficult stone, the snake is fragmented with a worker’s blade. A carpenter of pulp and paste saves the marble floor from falls. Pulsation spreads out promptly with a thrashing cord painting a brown... [More]
March 1, 2000
A while back, South Stanly High School was having problems with its mascot, again. A few African Americans blew gasgets after finally realizing our symbol of a rebel is portrayed as a Confederate officer. This wasn't a big deal, I... [More]
November 12, 1999
brown circular grass carries rusty devices beside lovely drain soup crescents and only the Earth visits until the wet air days of summer when thick boys quickly bisect the balding quad with unnoticing eyes and listless grip... [More]
October 19, 1999
The girl is a paragon of protocol, resplendent in her social practice. Yet, tempered to calm she wraps the truth and stares beyond foggy interest and lazy glances. Through yellow-banded glass and green needles is budding hope of anything other... [More]
October 15, 1999
I hurt every time I think of you, and it won't leave until I do. So, here's goodbye to a happy end, and hello to a new me as I again begin. A reinvention of a completed self. Starting... [More]
September 9, 1999
Until now I've held my tears inside, with all fears. They fall and crush me. Liberty. You smeared my guarantee- I'm lost without your proximity, the only love you can apply. All the time I was lost in you,... [More]
