Tuesday, October 10, 2017

Hard to Edit

A grammatically twitty poem about being a writer from Texas.

Treacle comes in black,
Molasses in gold,
in my grandmother's larder,
somewhat like England,
but harder
and probably already
as twice-borrowed-over
as the language I leak.
I used to could
and I'm fixing to,
in a bit,
go proper on you,
but in the mean time,
I'm hard to edit like that.

Dinner is lunch,
because supper is light,
back at the ranch.
We used to could
speak German, Spanish, Greek,
two hundred years back,
when we were immigrants
gone pioneer,
but now we speak
Texgerm, Spanglish, Greex,
and we're hard to edit like that.

My mamma raised an urban cowgirl,
thinks Caribbean cowboys are suave,
and esteems all Luckenbach Buddhas.
I never could 
see the oxymoron others' saw in all that,
so I'm fixing to
sing along to Lighten' Hopkins
while reading Shakespeare,
and I'll probably borrow a spot,
inspired and dripping contradiction.
I've heard it said before,
I'm hard to edit like that.

The whole state
went from a hundred years
staunchly blue democrat,
to almost thirty-long
adamant red republican.
We never could
do anything half-ass,
and we're always fixing to
pull ourselves up
by our own bootstraps,
in every verb tense
under the Texas sun.
We're difficult to know
and hard to edit like that.

I used to could worry
about sounding like a hick,
but now I've got too much education
to fall for that self-conscious trick,
so I'm fixing to just accept
I ain't never gonna be a grammar delight,
and bless those sweet little hearts
forced to help the world read
all us Texas scribblers
even though
we're hard to edit like that.

Like me, snow-bright sand, makes some photos of Texas hard to edit.

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