It's not a joke or a poem; it's a retchin' story of facts
and it's too close to truth to be of the north.
Southern Gothic Bio-graph
by r.w. 28 Jan 06
final (?) draft:
He lived for four decades with only old newsprint
stacked high alongside cheesecake glory
girls he never dumped, except for the one:
the girl he dumped along with himself.
He faked contentment in clapboard
on blocks at Powersville, Georgia;
a water stop, whistle stop, trains all long gone.
Inside his parlor amidst such detritus
stood an upright Graphonola which he wound-
up for me when I was eleven,
when our family ventured
a first and a last
visit to meet our grand
thin, flame-haired, squirrelly, loquacious;
an old spruce in gum shoes, delighted to
vault over mountains to show off his place
to our family; family he'd denied
from himself, ever since sometime
DAMN, bitch! You said you was barren!
That ain't no seed of mine...you harlot
from HELL...I ain't PAYIN' one dime for your brat.
I learned of that speech well
after his death; after he ran-down, out,
imprinting himself on pulp picks of perfection
of real unreal women, with only his mother's dark talking-
machine for companionship.
paid the repairs
for Bubba's spurned son: the '31 Chrysler
hidden, new in the barn, and the shack, and
Bubba's land and his bonds and stashed cash;
all of that was claimed by his boy, except for
a sort of a coffin,
that, that Kiley son surrendered
then sent to me,
a boy of fourteen, in Miami.
Uncle Bubba's Graphonola scratches, still
from the past, for it contains
as he was of a day of July of nineteen hundred and sixty five:
, it works like this.
The horn is hid behind them flap doors.
Back when your momma was a tiny thing
she points to the horn, and she says, so sweet
! Is there a little person living inside?' "
1918 Columbia Graphonola