With the fingers of god,
Endure the rich here gathered.
The sweaty priest.
The abiding misery of high-society weddings,
I have graced the funeral of debtors with better spirit.
I abandon the fragranced herd,
And the mariachi in fake moustachios,
And the honeyed vino,
And the tight bulimic wives,
And the bloodripe daughters,
Prettier than my bride by a galaxy of pimples,
The wiry toadlike granny would not eat the damn cake
Until this joke was called.
You didn’t tell me he was a…,
He was a what Nan?
He was a … you know … nigger!
Oh I’d be damn’d Mama!
Sweet Mother of God!
We don’t call them that anymore.
I consent to my golden luck,
Wipe my black mouth,
And smile in the way of a groom.
To awaken in a rising and falling
Field of shit-green grass,
Smelling like warmed cow teats.
Kudos to my new black and white friends,
Chopping in the prairies yonder.
Calling dibs on a good day.
I raise my glass to you,
And to a dying sun.
Soon you will be that medium-rare steak,
In a nice wedding china.
All you excellent excremental stallions
And heifers out there.
Epic curd-chewing Arabian-technology types,
Miracles of nature, if nearly genetic,
Taking hot valiant shits universally,
All the lot of you,
Yes you, yes you.
Crooked cow mouths,
Horse shit moneymakers,
With vast glass eyes,
And lashes battling flies,
With little care for grooms and holy matrimonies,
As they accident at the Galloway Ranch,
All that mariachi crooning,
All that geometric civility,
And uh’s and ah’s,
I wonder what you must think of us now.
Oh, and to my father-in-law,
There was never a whiter SOB in the South.
Galloway. Jim Galloway. One fine Galloway,
Dripping with bile and advantage.
What has this world become?
I am fenced in by malignant faces,
And I bride I want less,
In a deep meadow place once tilled
By great black cousins and grand black uncles,
Recruits of the Western Coast,
Now black and very dead Galloways themselves,
Do you hear me down there Uncle?
Do you see what we now are?
This thick irony brings laughter,
A black Negroid man from the red dusty Sahel,
And I manage to bargain the liliest white gal in the South,
The finest tumbler of giggles you ever saw.
There’s bird songs if you listen carefully.
But never a good story for the ages, as this:
A black and white couple that never was,
And a dying crimson Missouri sun,
And sand in my vino,
Dead black uncles in the ground.
And I am beside myself with only misery.