Ive found myself in the deep thickness.
Everything in the south feels thick;
thick food, thick air, thick voices. 60 miles west of Savannah, the trees are fresh, robust and the delicacy is gator.
Frances has been chasing us, and pouring her rains unforgivenly upon us.
I actually find her beautiful; when i see the purples and blues and greens circling and bouncing around the tele.
You can love her, but she'll never let you hold her. You can hate her, but she is the reason i survive.
I took a drive down one of the main streets here in Waycross.
I saw an old black man, sitting on the porch of his decaying house, thinking any minute he was going to take out his bottle of shine. Most of the houses here are falling apart, dying. What i love most about Georgia, are the trees. I suppose there are these trees in other places, but THESE trees seem to be wise and old and carry heavy burdens, carry stories of slavery, lore, and fire. Georgia also holds some ancient swamps, ones that haunt my dreams, the ones im always tryin to escape. And swamps always make me feel dirty, and sexy; a swamp would be the place i might make out with the devil, throw back a bottle of whiskey.
Im going back to Florida tomorrow morning. Our house was spared from any lasting damage. The big oak in the front yard lost some branches, but there are no broken windows or flooding. I will indeed miss the ghetto bar in the Holiday Inn here, the little blonde girls thick accents, the beautiful blackness sitting on their broken steps. But Florida is my home now, i dont really have a home, and thats ok. I go with the wind, i am a gypsy. Ive seen the devistation of Charley and of Frances, and i know there is nothing i need, nothing greater than the morning breath. Florida will cradle me with the anorexic palms, and the sufforcating sun.
There may also be some love waiting for me in St Pete.
my forture did say: Your romatic fantasies are about to come true.
Everything in the south feels thick;
thick food, thick air, thick voices. 60 miles west of Savannah, the trees are fresh, robust and the delicacy is gator.
Frances has been chasing us, and pouring her rains unforgivenly upon us.
I actually find her beautiful; when i see the purples and blues and greens circling and bouncing around the tele.
You can love her, but she'll never let you hold her. You can hate her, but she is the reason i survive.
I took a drive down one of the main streets here in Waycross.
I saw an old black man, sitting on the porch of his decaying house, thinking any minute he was going to take out his bottle of shine. Most of the houses here are falling apart, dying. What i love most about Georgia, are the trees. I suppose there are these trees in other places, but THESE trees seem to be wise and old and carry heavy burdens, carry stories of slavery, lore, and fire. Georgia also holds some ancient swamps, ones that haunt my dreams, the ones im always tryin to escape. And swamps always make me feel dirty, and sexy; a swamp would be the place i might make out with the devil, throw back a bottle of whiskey.
Im going back to Florida tomorrow morning. Our house was spared from any lasting damage. The big oak in the front yard lost some branches, but there are no broken windows or flooding. I will indeed miss the ghetto bar in the Holiday Inn here, the little blonde girls thick accents, the beautiful blackness sitting on their broken steps. But Florida is my home now, i dont really have a home, and thats ok. I go with the wind, i am a gypsy. Ive seen the devistation of Charley and of Frances, and i know there is nothing i need, nothing greater than the morning breath. Florida will cradle me with the anorexic palms, and the sufforcating sun.
There may also be some love waiting for me in St Pete.
my forture did say: Your romatic fantasies are about to come true.