I must write a Whitmanic poem one day…

I am long shimmering lonesome asphalt

I am outhouses

I am hand-me-downs

I am no electricity need

I am apple tree headstones

I am dirt and gravel and oil…Tha Govner say no sense paving roads to poverty

I am abandoned bird stained churches

I am insanity prowling the family periphery

I am people whose only vice was co-mingling with relatives

I am hillbilly by birth, though we have attempted a family wide disinformation denial campaign for 50 years

I am secrets…destructive, dark and unspoken

I am Dickies green and navy blue work clothes…

I am the disenfranchised…huddling with a passive angry need and properly lubricated weaponry

I am a blues singer wailing perfect word ointments

I am America’s minorities…seething…angry…waiting and denying perfection

I am Poverty, I give a rat’s ass about your skin color…I dine on suffering

I am a man what worked all his life…and left nothing but ghosts of sweat, tears, blood and family

I am a man that sings, writes, paints… history will remember me…and my people

Until fire renders thee pride ash.

I am humility, sweet and crucified.