Let me take you on a Phonetic Poetic Photo journey via pictures and Verse.
Black is not something I do. It is who I am.
It is the place I inhabit and that which inhabits me.
Black is the space where ancestral spirits find place within my soul. It’s music inhabits my every thought and deed. From Be-Bop to Hip-Hop it’s all there never to be displaced no matter my current accommodations.
Calling me Journey. Sojourning for Truth. Ain’t I a Woman strong and fierce.
Calling me Traveler for I have inhabited many shores. I strode forth without ever leaving my home.
Home is the place that inhabits me. Every cut corner ragged edge begs to be filled. Silence inhabits uncharted symphonies of mindless cacophonies. Symphonic Blasts inhabit the Universe.
Museum paintings and sculptures inhabit three planes: Past, Present and Future. Transformation begins via viewers lending voices to long forgotten pasts. Silent Interiors speak Volumes but only the selected of the masses can hear its voice.
The butterfly leaps from Chrysalis thrust into Arboreal fields. In tune with Eternal Firefly beings.
Street Urban Art Inhabits dreary dry brutalist streetscapes revamping the atmosphere paying Silent Verbal Homage to fallen heroes kept from whited sepulchral one-sided gallery spaces.
The past inhabits the future while dullards look askance on those not like them. The past inhabits the present whilst clinging to a more hopeful future.
Past and current inhabitants on a collision course with destiny. Destiny inhabits the storm.
The Great Soul inhabits All Souls at birth yet flees from the wicked. Let Grace Abound.
Yes We Inhabit a strange land mystically inhabiting three spheres. Counterclockwise orbits inhabiting galaxies.
A Love Supreme in Search of Me.
Aunt Carrie ~~ George Gordon’s Sister
This is a Tin Type photo of an unknown unnamed Ancestor
My Grandmother Eva Sophronia Gordon Palmer
My Aunt Thelma Palmer Varner
Me and the Borg at my old office job where I made more money and had a better life.
It all started with a Red Studebaker. A Cherry Red Studebaker to be exact. June Bug loved that car. Not that you’d knowed it as he hit nearly every rut on the pocked marked red clay roads. Then thars that damned car horn. Hooga! Hooga! Chooga! Chooga! At any half way decent looking girl who happened to be strutting along the road or passing along the sidewalk. Nah. He never picked’em up or nothing. Just liked blowing at’em and blowin’em off.
Rackety. Tackety. Hooga! Chooga! June Bug once a handsome looker in his day is now an irascible old coot. Irritating. Infuriating. Yet irrepressible. June Bug’s tight coils once Jet Black were now a soft mass of little pepper mostly salt yet his smooth caramel skin remained unlined never betraying his 60+ years. June Bug rattled and rambled more than the old car. Surprisingly his Hooptie flew through Vermilion’s rutted roads as they were the Indy 500. His deep throat Blues Wails in tune with spurts and jerks of Red Studie as he liked to call her!
“Red Clay Georgia Man. Off to see his Red Bone Gal.” June Bug caterwauled “My Momma tole me not to marry No High Yaller Gal!”
He tore past the tall Evangelical Trees waving three pronged red leaves that lined the pot holed streets. He motored past long abandoned 20th/21st Century hotels. A few castles here and there littered the landscapes.
And Oh ya the music that issued from his Cherry Red Vehicle. Leftovers from the 20th Century later found by scavengers of the New Age. A sure fired mashup but what a collection! Nobody in town had his selection. DJ Jukebox June Bug. Then there were the songs. Songs that issued from his head and out through his mouth and nostrils anointing the air like those old fashioned mini jukeboxes atop tables formerly found in mouth watering greasy spoons. Just drop in a dime and out comes Hittsville USA.
When June Bug ate he put on a performance. Waving his hands, gesturing with his fingers as though casting out bad taste and extra calories. June Bug’s Grace over food was often more fascinating the the victuals before the clan. Them old pot belly stoves did not disappoint. Perhaps these incantations keep away beheaded soldiers from eons past still searching for the lost craniums. Foolish young folks gathering herbs and mushrooms whom elders had warned away entered the maze of the Dream Tracks. A Labyrinth from which none had returned populated by headless wandering souls happy to take your bonnet until theirs is revived.
Junie’s dinner party audience held in rapturous delight beguiled and enthralled by his Griot tongues. Clinking Ice Cubes swim beside Mason Jar Sweet Tea.
Khia a Dedicated member of the Moonbeam Wanderers Expressed a desire to explore the old mental hospital Bedlam/Maldeb located beyond the Western fields. “I would not go up there if I were you said June Bug as he took another bite of deep fried roasted critter.
Miasma Scourge Walks the grounds with his codpiece dripping venom. His galactic bulge is lined with Wolfments and you’ll be forced to Wife the most loathsome of his clan. Nocturnal emissions stain the grounds seeking a fitting vessel for which to replenish dwindling populations. They exude ear wiggs which bore into the brain leaving open wounds from which you don’t recover. Gone Missing. Forced to walk the dream trails entrapped like a fly in a spider’s web.
Upon hearing this news Khia upchucked violent river streams of vibrato nearly forcing Healer Le’Andra to pay a visit to grounds of Ye Olde Apothecary Shoppe.
June Bug Let’s not bring up the Chigy-Nomay at the dinner table whilst giving her great grand niece Khia a forceful penetrating eye warning. Le’Andra shook her flustered head in amazement and despair that Khia was gifted with the wandering explorer gene but no common sense nor appreciation of danger.
June Bug contained his frightful spew shifting to complimenting Le’Andra on the crispness and succulent flavor the the deep fried roasted critter. Critters were animal abbreviations slow moving and easily caught with nets or traps were a welcome addition to any meal. Le’Andra replied I resemble that remark. June Bug returned answered, “I resemble you.”
Khia much recovered excused herself from dinner table to out to the forestwood moss-glenn. Gathering stones to trip over Lake-pond had a soothing effect on her confused weary soul. Scripted answers and Old Wives tales breathed Khia. That’s all I get from the Venerable Ones!
The smells of flowers, plants, bushes and trees intoxicated Khia’s brain. Khia lay back on virulent mossy leaves with her bare feet resting upon the stones who then began to speak into her toes. Transmuting antediluvian wisdom but not in order making it nearly impossible for Khia to decipher the rapid fire messages. So Khia prayed to Sojourner Goddess anchor your canvas skin shelters near mine that I may gain the wisdom, knowledge and understanding beyond that of the Venerable Ones! Let me Not be swept away by the strong currents of Medicine River prematurely ending my earthly suspension. Imprint upon me my portion that I may fulfill my granted Harvest.
Leftovers from a time when the oracles and seers cried out prophecy yet were consistently ignored by the ruling classes politicians. preachers and pimps. Pollution had suffocated the land and befouled the oceans in the 2050s of the 21st Century. Land masses broke off and some lands rejoined together in a map reflecting ages long gone.
Prior to human habitation, the floods of melting glaciers had carved out these canyons and created the beauty that stands today. You may bring stones but never take any away. The Ancient Ones see and pronounce Blessings and curses upon those who defile the land.
The Invisible Ones decamped to higher grounds. The Mole people were no longer subterranean centrifuges. Recurring Lands provided rescue. Ciphers gave notice.
But the 25th Century burned bright and new. Yup a few parts here and there from abandoned auto shops and Old Gertie was as good as gold. Motoring across Pangaea over to Gondwana.
Broken is who and what I am. Every day I see the pieces of my armor falling to the floor. I am that tragic secret whispered among the thorns. An embalmed mannequin morphing into a rotting corpse. A piece of trash waiting for Sanitation to pick me up and deposit me on the refuse heap. The Reaper comes for his Harvest as the Char Man makes his daily delivery to Sanford & Son. Elizabeth I’ll see you soon.
When did the explosion happen? Who knows? Because I think it was really an implosion. Being a Nightmare waiting to be born. Somebody put a dent in my universe which I don’t know how to repair.
Save your prayers. Save Your Prayers for stones on the ground. Each prayer causes me to die a little each second of every day. Wash away the guilt and shame so embedded that you need to kill parts of your brain to live.
Let me go back to the nobody I’ve always been. One with nothing to prove.
I am not mortar and stone. I am bubbling flesh bursting at the seams. In my dreams I’m someone else. Somebody else. An important person. A person with a mission, passion and purpose. Going up in the air ready to crash into the next mountain peak. Brought low. Brought back to earth. Reality.
Birthing a mummified child. Dear Dead One How long were you within me? He just kept stabbing at my web of lies whilst becoming entangled within its sticky threads. Pain Follows even to the most secret hiding places.
Something inside me broke. Perhaps because I have so much internal conflict and when I’m with Stephen I can take off the mask. But then again I’m broken. I’m a Nightmare the gods
For several weeks something within me has been breaking, collapsing, pieces falling apart. Rolling across the earth. Some swallowed up. Whatever Control I thought I had is long gone. Tiredness and exhaustion have stolen my immortal soul. When you’re lost you no longer know who you are.
As I try to erase and blot out the voices of those telling me who I should be and how to get there. But I know to ask why. Don’t Put Your Chains on me for I’ve Made My Bed in the Land of Other.
Because I don’t want to join your journey………… For I’m Only a Few Steps Away from Grace….
For Mable Palmer who did not survivor cancer but lives on in our collective memories.
I must have ran 40 blocks after I got the news. And that damned parrot would not shut up! Aunt Beatrice came and got him while me flying down the streets with no coat, hat, gloves or even a scarf on a cold freezing pre-Christmas day. Down Fulton Street. Decomposition. A Rotted Christmas Gift. Which Morgue? I’m assigned to find you.
To this day I still hate Christmas and always will.
Fulton’s Folly redux.
Oblivious to cars, speeding past rickety boarded up storefront churches, racing around and through stagnant pedestrians. Cars honking. Screeching to an unexpected halt as fleet form weaves speed through traffic Loom gossamer spider webs. If I run fast enough to the morgue maybe I’ll still have a chance to remind his body to arise for the Tree Lightening Ceremony.
The Forest. I’ll run into the woods. There I found the magnificent corpse of a Unicorn. Majestic but I didn’t know what to do with it. Wasps had made a home inside the stomach cavity. Carrying life from death. I could smell syrup and honey mixed with Holiday Candy Canes. My dreams, goals and plans for the future. Disemboweled.
The Way of Wings is to fly. Where Sweet Harbor lies.
She Triumphant Playing Parlor Games exuded Vibrato from wild god’s Olde Apothecary Shoppe. When a Heroine falls. She dies alone. Forgotten and lost to the ages. She had only a passing acquaintance with sanity.
Each Day Jesus Cries for those condemned to the altars of bloody sacrifice.
Simon says. You learn quickly to do what Simon says or you’re out of the game. For Simon is Jigsaw.