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.