On the Road Again (cont'd)

The deer flies are in season. I remember excavating Indian sites,
with no shirt on, leaning over a burial, with a trowel, a grapefruit knife,
an ear syringe, and one would get you right between the shoulder blades,
where you couldn't slap him. "Man, this is really living, ain't it?" I say,
eating oysters on the deck of Posey's in St. Marks. "You wanna swap
war stories?"

There are two schoolmarms from the university.
I saw them at the wildlife refuge, where we each, or all,
bought books. And now they're here at Posey's, on the deck,
eating an al fresco shrimp basket. I am having a fried grouper sandwich.
They don't seem to be interested in me. They must be lesbians.
Here I am, writing poems in a composition book and taking snapshots of
my food, and passing fishing boats. Wouldn't you be curious?
How often do you see that? In Wakulla County?

A poet writing about archeological sites he dug
39 years ago, an unemployed technical writer,
an old fart, gone in the teeth, a botched civilization.
Nobody cares about your unpublished play.
Nobody wants to hear the old field hollers and laments
from a person with white privilege. Pardon me, boss--
but ain't that you up there and me down here?

You can no more have a preference for faith-based organizations
and applications judged on programs that have shown themselves through
scientific evidence to be effective than you can have merit and outreach,
quality and affirmative action, a contest and a charade for which the fix is in.
They don't want a level playing field they want preferential treatment based on race.
Call it remedial, and temporary, except it never goes away, as we race for the bottom.
The old double standard justified by doublespeak. And that's a double dose of doubles.

On my drive, I was able to listen to
classical music on the college radio station
out of Tallahassee all morning long. My NPR affiliate,
associated with Gulf Coast Community College, went over to
an all-talk-radio format, for diversity. To give us something we couldn't get
anywhere else on the dial. As Christopher Walken said, when Dennis Hopper
told him his grandmother had fucked an Ethiopian, in Sicily, "I beg your pardon?"
Now we have virtually no classical music with Les Spencer, no Wally Crawford
jazz show in the afternoon, no "Blues with C. C.," on Saturday morning. Just canned
assholes voicing their opinions. They all have one. Doubletalk is a quality-of-life issue.

Down in the wildwood, sitting on a log, my finger on the trigger
and my eye on a hog, honey won't you let me be your salty dog.
As Uncle Potter used to say. Garza Brothers Bait Company, in Medart.
Lady War Eagles Fast Pitch Softball. I could fuck them all.

I can no longer remember whether Mary Lou Norwood's house
was on the road to Mashes Island or on the road to Alligator Point.
Whether the fiber-tempered complicated-stamped pottery type was Deptford
or Orange. Or Norwood. If the Deptford was sand-tempered, then the argument
was over distribution. Norwood had already been named. It was Orange.
What's in a name? Ask Darwin. Ask Wallace. There, but for the grace of God,
go I. A professional archeologist. As anal-retentive as an obsessive-compulsive.

All the places that sell Leo Lovel's books,
Spring Creek Chronicles I and II, will not accept
a collection of anecdotes and ravings that use the N word.
What am I going to do? Xerox a copy for Ella Blue,
and tell her, "This is what your grandpa thought."
And said. It isn't bragging if you do it.
When all is said and did and done he did it.