This week, you'll laugh, I think, at "The Porch Pundits. Funny. " 3/6-8/14

The Porch Pundits

2.6.14
"Ded" is:
Miss Purple Velvet Peep-toe Heels is
coming right on "tine."


Again?
Yes, again. She ain't learn yet.
Wearin' less of a dress, I bet,
and strutin', not "twissin.'" You better
believe it.


Like she own sum'um?
Like she own everything, and maybe she
do. You done seen 'em?


Who?
Them men who faces get more colder
than freezer burn chicken when they
see 'er.


Aww! I didn't know it was that deep.
You don't think they got that gold
on the finger?
What do you think?


Oooo! That girl must know what she
must doing 'cause tacks are all over
the flo' o' that territory. She might
know how to be careful. Things like
that have a way gettin' out o' hand.
I don't know.
No, you don't, and me either. I did say
"maybe" to that.


What ju' know?
One o' them party favors got tha' gold,
and it’s old Kay-Kay's gold.


Stop yo' lyin' right now.
I would if I did.


You need to hush up about this. Not
Kay-Kay.
Uh-huh.


Didn't she hear 'bout the last three
sum'ums that had 'im?
(A sarcastic glare)


Don't look at me like that. May she
didn't.
Who around here 'sides the dead and
gone and folks who never even scooted
by this town haven't heard 'bout it?


That girl is crazier than water on
the brain. Nobody in court could
pin that he didn't off them up and
gone gals...even though he was the
last one to see 'em all.
Naw, now, he did have all them
"ali-bisexuals"to back 'im up.


(Strong laughter) Oooo, Lord!
That's alibis, now, and I thought
I was far gone.
Don't start wit' me. Hell, you what
I mean. 'Sides, I think the wife did
away wit' 'em, and that fact that
nobody even looked in her direction
when it all went down is sick in
the head to me. They all need a
check for being stupid on one
side o' they heads.


I didn't even think 'bout that. They
always fightin' 'bout his women. If
I was her, he would have been let
go and out the do' a long time ago.
That's it. And - I don't know if you
knew - she "whatn't" lookin' too
good health-wise either, when I saw
'er at Decker's Groceries last week
either.


You don't think she on that stuff,
poppin' caplets, or sum'um 'cause
o' him, do you?
Me? I think you need to try 'gin.


Ah'm gonna throw a rock at you.
He done gave her some nasty
sickness. That's what you tellin'
me?
Gotta be. She ain't da' one to take
a chance on gettin' on the mess.
She think she too high-class for
that. All about appearances, you
know?


Ms. Lemon, on Capshaw, told me
somethin' 'bout it, but I didn't
pay attention to 'er too much.
You know? We was at the farmer's
market, and you know she loves
gossip and lie, and she call herself
a lover of lord and life.
I know. Anyway, he would be the
one needin' a pine box if he gave me
something that's been passed on
from some flith for anybody.


Right there wit' you.
Either way, don't be surprise, with
all that foolin' around, if you hear
'bout Ms. Purple, on down the line,
is found face down is da' same color
she wearing tonight around town.

© 2014 Jarrod C. Lacy




　

"What Duty" is the poem post this week. 2/26/14 - 3/2/14

What Duty

April 20, 2001

Service is in need.

My house is clean, but it's the corners and the cracks
and the unreachable that completes the story.
I fill in those to that.
Once home, from work, I whiff the interior therein
first to opening the door, and it's no surprise that pine
and other scents reach for my nostrils and details what
should befit a weekly wipe and rinse.
The act is a sharp reminder of what I did.
Before, and every time a cause for a chore, thoughts
of things being well-done make the daily reality
of it much to endure.
If there is something to do - as this is in every case -
my primary state of direction is a diligent reflection
of a home to make.

© 2001 Jarrod C. Lacy

This week's poem: 112 Apartment F to 109 Apartment A. 2/19/14 - 2/22/14

112 Apartment F to 109 Apartment A

December 18, 1998

I hurl back to that baroque cluster

of discomfort that was once the shaky

quarters, belonging to me and my

cousins.

I protest to fully recollect it.

How galactic ally malcontent they were,

my cousins, in rooms that grated the

rooms' defensive.

Stormily, psychosomatically, my body

was the ultimate fire; the urchins

with whom I shared rooms faced my

burning strife daily, that flickered

higher and higher.

They were rightfully burned by my

words, and failed to meet my one

simple desire; to maintain cleanliness.

Ornery was a ruler, but I love my - our - rooms,

those among the two-story brick duplex,

once believed a housing project.

Why did my cousins make mad the rooms?

Or piled high therein their filthy truths?

Honestly, they weren't home-trained.

Sickening to think that a chauvinist's

hand are bred to stirrup; everyone

Else’s must clean.

But I thank you rooms. I thank you

For tolerating us - through only one us

wanted to straighten you both up.

Now, I'm gone away and so are my

cousins.

There were good times had in you; thank

you goodness the housing authority

didn't report you or my cousins, or lead

you into some stinking, rancorous

abyss - thank you for having us.

© 1998 Jarrod C. Lacy
　

This week, I recite "The Gospel Of Barbecue" by Honoree Fanonne Jeffers, an incredible poet and teacher. 2/13 - 2/16.

The Gospel of Barbecue
By Honorée Fanonne Jeffers
for Alvester James

Long after it was
necessary, Uncle
Vess ate the leavings
off the hog, doused
them with vinegar sauce.
He ate chewy abominations.

Then came high pressure.
Then came the little pills.
Then came the doctor
who stole Vess’s second
sight, the predication
of pig’s blood every
fourth Sunday.

Then came the stillness
of barn earth, no more
trembling at his step.
Then came the end
of the rib, but before
his eyes clouded,
Uncle Vess wrote
down the gospel
of barbecue.

Chapter one:

Somebody got to die
with something at some
time or another.

Chapter two:

Don’t ever trust
white folk to cook
your meat until
it’s done to the bone.

Chapter three:

December is the best
time for hog killing.
The meat won’t
spoil as quick.
Screams and blood
freeze over before
they hit the air.

Chapter four, Verse one:

Great Grandma Mandy
used to say food
you was whipped
for tasted the best.

Chapter four, Verse two:

Old Master knew to lock
the ham bacon chops
away quick or the slaves
would rob him blind.
He knew a padlock
to the smokehouse
was best to prevent
stealing, but even the
sorriest of slaves would
risk a beating for a full
belly. So Christmas time
he give his nasty
leftovers to the well
behaved. The head ears
snout tail fatback
chitlins feet ribs balls.
He thought gratitude
made a good seasoning.

Chapter five:

Unclean means dirty
means filthy means
underwear worn too
long in summertime heat.
Perfectly good food
can’t be no sin.
Maybe the little
bit of meat on ribs
makes for lean eating.
Maybe the pink flesh
is tasteless until you add
onions garlic black
pepper tomatoes
soured apple cider
but survival ain’t never been
no crime against nature
or Maker. See, stay alive
in the meantime, laugh
a little harder. Go on
and gnaw that bone clean.

Source of copy: ThePoetryFoundation.org

Links: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/honoree-fanonne-jeffers

http://www.ou.edu/cas/english/people/faculty/facultypages/jeffers.htm

https://www.facebook.com/honoreej

http://phillisremastered.wordpress.com/

　

　

"Fugue State" is this week's feature poem. 2/5-8/14