Augur of Familial ScenesBrent House
Breaking clods of history to a poverty of clay & rich symmetry until patriarchs cannot breathe
& reins downlash.
a justified rede
Even unto the seventh generation:
passing. No farm is done in love.
Passing a mule stooped & no longer goes so a hammer on a head
humors blood with bile
& scored dirt.
Here flitter past field flowers & land on piles
rich to till.
Used to be we moved light.
Now there’s only some stem blooming out
pulp of word
Well did anybody hear such a sound?
& heaps saw the land scraped bare & a good many was for.
You ever get all swole up
you been roused by a righteous copse
& centripetal rounds bone deep?
Some time I gander
at all the dust & dang
semblance kin carry to greaves.
We all pared to an altering
falling in a heavy slant of cut
like a tractor into a pond after rolling over the burrow of nutria
at all indigenous.
Futhorc we ain’t either.
It’s just sad when you can’t even root for your own self.
Ain’t no justice in eyre
some briary binary
& all. I been told wherever I go
there I am
still I go to cedar closets.
Need is a conferment of grace
of gab raining on lealand
no morsure for rest
an ictus above the fold
Lord have mercy me.
Sometimes I think our cattle ain’t gonna bear nothing more than sacks of cotton seed hulls.
I am prod to believe if they trod ruts through the fields like they did last winter there won’t be no
I will tell you what hooves can cut soil something wicked
& this county used to be rich woods.
I shunt start pining.
Accept once was ochre & ochre & mist.
& wood the builders reject has become the sill. This is the Lord doing & behold
behold coming to you lowly & sitting
a donkey a colt the foal of a donkey.
Used to be we carry a cross.
Now we might as well throw it out the window.
This a pitiful mess.
I am just a dyvour in a plethora of good ingretients & good facture that done jaup in.
Much obliged to come home. Lord willing & the creek don’t rise.
I just can’t contend with creeks.
I am just a shieve against a flow
& the bridge is far past flooded over.
Back down on Shaw Road past Crane Creek where some my Shaw cousins live.
One won some 4-H show with an angus heifer named Nige when he was young. I never
much associated with the bunch.
I don’t want to see the crest. Not like it’s not wet all over.
Every sleugh in these parts of the woods is all choked up.
The air is large & wet.
I thought I could pretergress beyond. I reckon I can’t.
Thunder & wind is pelting down upon & hitherward.
If it’s not one thing it’s the other.
All kinds of cotton picking problems.
These days are getting harder & harder to be a good fallow.
I miss tin roofs good rest
what God has cleansed we must not call common
a dumosity in sodden decay
venules of fall.
The Spirit of the Land is come upon Me anointing with the gospel of water & dirt
to reclaim of downtrodden an acceptable way to be silt within ground.
I might utter to a birch & hidden acres
but we been imbued with enough water to fill a gaggle of number three washtubs full.
& the creek is bigger than I can take in full enough to swallow us whole.
Augur of Familial Scenes
Eros in Footnote
On January 1
The Sad Sentence
SON OF A FATHER
BEYOND THIS POINT ARE MONSTERS
Excerpt from The Fayum Portraits