Southern Gothic

Southern gothic

I can’t tell you if life is better

elsewhere,

I couldn’t tell you that the grass is greener

or that the air is cleaner;

But I’ve wasted my life in the opolis

of rural signage

and dilapidated main streets

and the historical essence

of my environment sits stagnant and stale in the chronology of Americana.

The smell of industrial labor

burns in the atmosphere

and the sweat that drips from the blue collared necks fuels the machina.

Smoggy headspace and worn roads,

reminiscent of the wasted youth

walking the streets of the wild,

wild Midwest.

Roads, still wet from the light night showers in mid March, cast iridescent beams when the sun peeks through the grey clouds.

The foliage is in bloom

and the smell of pollen

and dead leaves in the spring

linger in the cool northern breeze.

While driving the long winding state

highways, passing properties privately owned by uncle Sams agricultural backbone, I can sense the purest intentions from the soil to the livestock.

And as the pink sun chases the moon out of the the sky the heavens hue

gradually burns with lava

as the sun sets fire to the night

and colors the dark, grey clouds

pink and lavender.

Hot orange cloudscape surround

the ascent of morning until it breaks the

stratosphere.

As it reaches 45 degrees it releases magma like mt Vesuvius and lathers the negative space between the clouds Korean powder blue while turning the clouds a cotton candy raspberry color until it hits high noon.

The smell honeysuckle in the wind reminds me of stealing blooms from the neighbors bushes under the cover of night.

When staying up all night seemed ritualistic,

the streetlights flickered on us

and in the night we found a wealth of creativity and a goldmine of nostalgias.

The alleys of abandon buildings,

tattooed with graffiti,

tell stories of adolescent angst

and teenage rebellion.

Submersing ourselves in the gothic south

and living the day-to-day of the

Bible Belt’s counterculture.

Writing abrasive music

and melancholic poetry to pass the lingering monotony.

And while the air,

heavy with BBQ smoke,

dances on my skin in an endless

waltz with the sun rays.

I’m softly soaking up the essence

of my environment.

Silently enjoying the in-between moments

while my shoes,

stained with red dirt,

Stand on soil rich with wasted youth.

Cicadas, humming in the evening

While the fragrance of fried foods fill the

humid air.

The weeping steel guitar

of old Nashville rockabilly echoes with

Each passing gust of wind,

Looping a soundtrack of my childhood

consisting of country music and 90’s R&B.

Reminiscent rhythms

and nostalgic dance steps with

my elders, listening to them talk

about the first time they heard an oldie,

while the younger generation listens with eyes wide and ears open, unaware of the weight a heart full of memeories bares;

Hoping to capture a piece of that

geuniune longing,

that organic nostalgia

So that they won’t end up with regrets

and bittersweet Polaroids.

So that maybe their voices

won’t crack when digging up the past.

The moist summer heat offers nothing but the sound of passing cars

as they echo from one ear

to the other as I sit parked

on the side of a quiet,

Country cottage-lined highway.

Rediscovering the aesthetically pleasing

terrain and exploring old ruins,

where the boys were.

Where we shed blood and tears

along with the idea that we were less.

Where we left most of our innocence,

and I believe we misplaced the rest.

Snapping photographs

and grasping on to the past with both hands, tighter, until these mere moments

feel like little forevers.