“Swearing… a bellwether—a foul-beaked canary in the coal mine—” - Emma Byron Somewhere along the Nolichucky in an Appalachian July, gathered a congress of friends: mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, a local nurse, a handyman, a waitress newly unemployed, a pizza cook - all upright, fried crisp and getting crocked. The babies were asleep, the fire bright, the banter surly. It cycled through tightfisted wages and overdrawn accounts, days choked on Trumped up stories buggering common sense, then the regrets - fermented dreams and philanders - they never could make sense of it anyway. With sheets to the wind and stumbling judgement in sore need of restoration, the repartee slipped off the bank into the raunchy waters of Vulgaria, where, albeit unexpectedly, along the Nolichucky in an Appalachian July, Hygiea rose from the foam, with shit under her nails. She was sired that night by conundrum and wombed in a Dickle jar, but her remedy, in that hour of need, sat like a
Kinetic Poetry - Subject to change without warning.