Geography of My Love (Camerado)
Starting from Cape Fear,
like a moonrise,
I show the old land my rear.
Another Cape, lookout!
then look away. Look away,
without belief but half devout,
from the lands interlocked,
from the doubled Carolina,
from the shores of Sock-it-to-me.
Over devoted to this region?
Don’t look back.
Don’t treat it as a pure religion.
Off to Asia or to Europe?
No, I take a bend to the African
to end at the Cape of Good Hope.
Geography of My Love (Marsupial)
The opossum is mighty
as a chestnut tree:
A bit of you, a bit of me.
Her dark brow is wet
as passion’s sweat
on a night you won’t regret.
Then you catch her
in the lights of your car:
Some play dead, others are.
The brave lie still and supine
from a heart unbroken by mankind,
but rise back up with an open mind.
What love is, I do suppose,
rises from even false repose.
Geography of My Love (Gerontological)
In the midst of wife,
I’m out of breath!
Shall I go on alone
or turn to Viagra
or testosterone?
Sex is laid aside,
but not yet laid to rest;
my best laid plans
were nearly laid off.
But lie to me, my dear,
that we may lay
in a sweet melee,
a wild rumpus
as our rumps push.
Geography of My Love (Deep Sea)
Following the current, we lived
in a time unspent in repentance.
That’s what pressure gives:
a time of entrenchment,
a time so-so and a time to creep
among the sediment.
But our love was deep, too deep
as was our comeuppance.
Mary, don’t you weep!
Morning is the time to mourn;
the lack of fear in our bathysphere
meant at each level we were reborn
as our ball sealed with grommets
rose through a sea of lovers yet unmet.
Geography of My Love (Culinary)
Cheerwine and barbeque,
livermush, biscuits,
and brunswick stew.
Collard greens,
cantaloupes, watermelon
and lima beans.
Pickles, mullet and white moonshine
with boiled peanuts, field peas
and sweet muscadine wine.
Fried okra, fried sweet taters
fried chicken, fried oysters,
and fried green tomaters .
Cooked all up in bacon grease
til your heart stops pumping
and you rest in peace.
Starting from Cape Fear,
like a moonrise,
I show the old land my rear.
Another Cape, lookout!
then look away. Look away,
without belief but half devout,
from the lands interlocked,
from the doubled Carolina,
from the shores of Sock-it-to-me.
Over devoted to this region?
Don’t look back.
Don’t treat it as a pure religion.
Off to Asia or to Europe?
No, I take a bend to the African
to end at the Cape of Good Hope.
Geography of My Love (Marsupial)
The opossum is mighty
as a chestnut tree:
A bit of you, a bit of me.
Her dark brow is wet
as passion’s sweat
on a night you won’t regret.
Then you catch her
in the lights of your car:
Some play dead, others are.
The brave lie still and supine
from a heart unbroken by mankind,
but rise back up with an open mind.
What love is, I do suppose,
rises from even false repose.
Geography of My Love (Gerontological)
In the midst of wife,
I’m out of breath!
Shall I go on alone
or turn to Viagra
or testosterone?
Sex is laid aside,
but not yet laid to rest;
my best laid plans
were nearly laid off.
But lie to me, my dear,
that we may lay
in a sweet melee,
a wild rumpus
as our rumps push.
Geography of My Love (Deep Sea)
Following the current, we lived
in a time unspent in repentance.
That’s what pressure gives:
a time of entrenchment,
a time so-so and a time to creep
among the sediment.
But our love was deep, too deep
as was our comeuppance.
Mary, don’t you weep!
Morning is the time to mourn;
the lack of fear in our bathysphere
meant at each level we were reborn
as our ball sealed with grommets
rose through a sea of lovers yet unmet.
Geography of My Love (Culinary)
Cheerwine and barbeque,
livermush, biscuits,
and brunswick stew.
Collard greens,
cantaloupes, watermelon
and lima beans.
Pickles, mullet and white moonshine
with boiled peanuts, field peas
and sweet muscadine wine.
Fried okra, fried sweet taters
fried chicken, fried oysters,
and fried green tomaters .
Cooked all up in bacon grease
til your heart stops pumping
and you rest in peace.
