April 2018 IBPC poll

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The new page for April's IBPC voting is here: April 2018 IBPC poll ~ redo


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Thanked by 1Gracy

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  • Posts: 0
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  • Posts: 0

    Tallulah, Louisiana,
    endless fields
    with baby-
    elephant-ear
    tobacco leaves,
    hanging shreds
    of cotton
    and tangerines.

    I knock
    on a paint-peeled door;
    shuffling, rustlings
    inside the shotgun shack.
    A white-haired man,
    pipe, dark glasses,
    cracks open the door.

    Sorry to bother you,
    they tol’ me
    further down
    you’re a guitar player
    tol’ me
    you make the box talk.
    I got one here,
    you wanna
    give it a workout?

    What you drinkin?

    What’s your pleasure?

    I won’t say no to gin.

    Done.
    I’ll be right back.

    ………………………………

    Lucille’s laying out
    on the rumpled bed,
    reed-thin,
    in a thin flower-print,
    blue and white dress,
    face down, still.
    Blind Son
    holds my Martin,
    tunes to open,
    takes a Prince Albert can
    off a shelf,
    slides it up and down
    the strings.
    They whine and cry.

    Shor do lahk this gitah.

    He speaks gently
    to Lucille, wakes her
    from half-sleep,
    asks her to sing
    “one ‘a the ol’ ones.”
    She rolls over
    on her back
    and in barely audible voice
    born in honky-tonks
    and roadhouses,
    she sets time dancing
    in booze delirium .

    Soft tones,
    melisma
    jazzed into spaces
    between pain
    and wonder,
    joy and betrayal,
    floating memories
    of dance halls
    and protective,
    mean,
    boyfriends.

    Lying there,
    she introduces me
    to a blues-land cyclone
    people carry all week,
    released every Saturday night
    from dusk to daylight;
    doin’ tha Cakewalk,
    tha Shimmy, Swingout,
    tha Buzzard Lope.
    Slingin’ barbecue,
    gamblers’ cards
    on the table,
    whiskey an’ homebrew
    flowin.’

    She sings time
    into enduring,
    generous strokes
    of celebration,
    joy borne out of
    brutal history.
    Her ancestors move
    ghostly limbs
    in languorous gestures
    of survival.

    I’m quiet
    as she turns back over.
    I’ve lost words
    for what I’ve heard.

    I summon up:

    Lucille, I hope
    you’re feelin’ better
    soon.

    “Better awready, son”

    I leave the guitar behind.
  • Posts: 0
    Rus, the last two poems listed in the poll,"Pussy Grabbing Synchroidiocies" & "They Do" are not posted for us to read. ??
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