I live in three physical worlds and an innumerable number of pyschic worlds. I'm most at home in flight and walking, conversing, listening. I'm still taking photographs using an untrained eye & making paintings with an unskilled hand. But I'm joyous in these enterprises. If you'd like to check out some poems or reviews--of mine and others--go over to New Issues Press, Torch, Proud Flesh, The Drunken Boat, Pebble Lake Review, Zone 3.
ROSA INGRAM MURDERS GEORGIAN FARMER, 1948Mother, wife of,servant, sibling,daughter, Rosa.Woody Guthrieballad, a Blackhistory marker,a mere footnote.**Georgia, Georgia,the whole day throughjust an old, sweet song keeps Georgia on our minds. You. Quiet, a haint, prick your ring finger on stubborn cotton. Or you, a weapon, silver, slicing cane, flickering in night,an insect, floating, charged, wired, your lone rage,revved, the rumbling in your children’s belly,piercing, like engines clamoring through fields,tone-deaf mantras, pushing you from sleep, to labor, a sharecropper, then slow pay or no pay at all. Rosa, I wander,strain my ears for a glimpse of your music;I wonder if you sang, that night, how did you anguish?**