The Louisiana Social Pledge

We pledge our allegiance to Louisiana. We will embrace what makes us and our state unique. Louisiana will be recognized as a leader and innovator of the New South. Many great leaders of the future will come from this state. And we will show both the media and politicians that we are smarter than them. We will no longer have our resources exhausted and our people used and left behind. We will work hard and play hard. We will protect each other. We will support each other. We pledge that we will do whatever we can to get these things in motion right now. We will no longer wait for a path to be cleared for us. We will clear the path ourselves. And we ain’t giving up easily. We will socialize in the real world just as well as we do on the internet…in hopes to organize ourselves effectively.

Thursday, September 5, 2013

*Medulla (Dylan - Baton Rouge, La)

His ribs were made of precious rocks

            Where dust was breathed into--

Sealed in seams and living locks

            Until this boy was born and grew;

Mocked that tree that built his box

            And held his soul---the one he split in two.

I. Numbed-Out Funeral Song

In my enameled haste, I bit away the husks and soft seams of my fingertip only to spackle my spirit in three cardinal-hat drops. While they fuse into the cotton mesh of a white buttoned shirt, a neon display lights the window of the Majestic Mortuary, singing and jiving to tip-toeing black umbrellas caught in the daylight. Hiding my red triad beneath the crisp diamond pattern of a silk tie, the trickles converge into the slick-black sequence of a forking geometry. I’m the only one who knows; I mourn for myself, I mourn for humanity in silent, silver-tongued requiems. No one else seems to notice---that it’s all going to break when they blanch and bleach in the swirling of a washing machine: red-erased, to become crisp as the calllus from which they entered the world, Souls, underground: we’ll pierce into the dirt and cycle through a precious twist of earth.

II. Transcendentalism

One wild, three-toed dove flaps its collection of pastel-brown feathers, sewn together into some dull, begging plumage. On the Ninth Street concrete, a pearly shine from the fowl’s bust blinds walkers and lookers that sneak a peek at the cyclic pomp. The tear in its chest has a pus-dried rust surrounding its lead-peg-heart---a nameless shape in its ruffle of frayed horns; each projects like a thousand silhouettes from a single spark. When the street darkens with the nightly cast of shadows, the dove---vertebrae aligning---swoons into some glint in the amethyst puffs above, mourning. The world is quiet but for the whistle of gilt luxury automobiles; the violenting clouds of sky rage with the wind---breathing like some shatterer of worlds, fearing the grounds that bury below.

III. Afterglow of a Sickle-Moon

We both heard the electric buoy of insects: black bees and beds of roaches, hissing at our feet as we paced by. The spider-shaped contour of exploding palms hid our path through the soot-colored dark. Scratched and seared by brambles of a city jungle, our chafing legs were pulled and forced by the nerving grasp of wild twilight. Like a wasted, old Man and Woman, we both stood hunched; two broken columns, two Kahlos in the pithed fluidity of our fear: “I hope the exit is joyful---and I hope to never come back.” Hundreds of termites, like wasps, smothered our skin beneath the enlarging glare of a streetlight, wings sticking to our faces as we hear their bursting murmurs beneath the leather souls of our shoes. The sky holds only a sickle-moon, held by invisible strings that cup our fate.

All that is left are his precious rocks,

            Turned to dust that which was breathed into---

Picked and pulled at those weathered locks

            Until ash became the boy who grew;

Now under, he lays six in his simple box

            With his soul---the one split in two.

*The inner core of certain organs or body structures, such as the marrow of bones. 

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