Saturday, March 14, 2009

Statistically You Live Longer If You Reside Close to Where You Grew Up

In the midst of feral forests and swollen swamps
45 miles past any townlife,
the Kentucky house sits,
a shell-like corpse,
rheumy windows staring.
Encased within its walls, an old log cabin
dating back a century and a half,
brittle bones lining the main room
held together by dry ligaments of lath.
Light lopes across cracked walls
as if to escape the beams, welt-like scars,
that mar the ceiling.
Clogged pipes like blocked arteries
drive us outside to shit
ever returning the parasites to their earth.
Ancient jars of blood and water,
long rotted fruit in cement shards,
lay broken on pantry shelves.
Outside, the lone tenant lurks,
a black cat, granite eyes glaring,
her back leg hanging by a thread.

LL, 3/14/2009. Prevail.


  1. i love it...great texture, rhythm and jolting meter. makes me feel like i'm there.

  2. I am in awe of how tissue by tissue you make that place a body. WOW. The turn at the end catches my breath. Makes me wonder what these shabby things we call bodies are actually housing inside.

    You are a fabulous writer. Thanks for sharing.

  3. Somehow it feels like you are doing what you do best--interpreting for the deaf. You make images tell a story we cannot hear; you make words we otherwise could not understand, bear witness.

  4. Oh, nicely said, Goat! Everytime I read the comments from you poets I feel myself bang into one of those pesky limitations. Bump, bump, bump...hah, kind of like a moth hitting the lightbulb--let me in, let me in.

  5. Haha, Pig Woman. ;)

    YES, nicely said, Goat.

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  7. oooooo... i DO like this one! thanks for sharing! i ENJOYED reading it aloud! nice!