Southern Gothic
About the dead having available to them
all breeds of knowledge,
some pure, others wicked, especially what is
future, and the history that remains
once the waters recede, revealing the land
that couldn’t reject or contain it, and the land
that is not new, is indigo, is ancient, lived
as all the trees that fit and clothe it are lived,
simple pine, oak, grand magnolia, he said
they frighten him, that what they hold in their silences
silences: sometimes a boy will slip
from his climbing, drown but the myth knows why,
sometimes a boy will swing with the leaves.
—Rickey Laurentiis
“My body less a body, more the wounds I found blooming in its flesh, each its own gentle sainthood, a readiness for death. ”
—Rickey Laurentiis, “Stung,” from WhippedQuiet Please
And so it was. Violation.
Betrayal. What is it but the ego
brought out, invited, into the best possible
light—defined by it—until blinded?
I’m speaking of a wounding.
Internal. Of the moment the wound is
confirmed. Vision. Feeling. Don’t.
Sounds of struggle. Don’t apologize.
Sounds of the throat opening. Any species
of animals that rise, that vow to, even
after the first bullet, a second; even without
ever knowing what a “vow” is. Don’t
try. Don’t touch me now. And so
it was. Release. Aperture. The ego becomes
a harsh liquor. Then the ego
becomes, simply, a body’s want for it.
— rickey laurentiis
“About the dead having available to them all breeds of knowledge,some pure, others wicked, especially what is future, and the history that remains once the waters recede, revealing the land that couldn’t reject or contain it, and the land that is not new, is indigo, is ancient, lived as all the trees that fit and clothe it are lived, simple pine, oak, grand magnolia, he said they frighten him, that what they hold in their silences silences: sometimes a boy will slip from his climbing, drown but the myth knows why, sometimes a boy will swing with the leaves”
—Southern Gothic, Rickey LaurentiisEpitaph at the Foot of the Stone
Like you, I was born underwater.
(I lied: there was never a stone.)
Like you, I was born but that’s not the half of it:
I lived. Lord, I lived. Like a cancer, I crept
sideways. Like a scorpion, I lied. I lived
the way a problem lives, openly, so much
earth wanted me closed. Don’t you know the dead
are not easy? Don’t you know they crave?
I stepped out of the water (I was made doing this) slick-
skinned, fluent, a character: my eyes twice
haunted, my humor, my voice—and can’t you hear
shackles running the length of my voice? I was born
in a minute, in a panic, on a whim. A mistake,
I mean. A choice between this world and a body,
pretty fault where a heart should be.for Camille Rankine
— rickey laurentiis
“About the dead having available to them all breeds of knowledge, some pure, others wicked, especially what is future, and the history that remains once the waters recede, revealing the land that couldn’t reject or contain it, and the land that is not new, is indigo, is ancient, lived as all the trees that fit and clothe it are lived, simple pine, oak, grand magnolia, he said they frighten him, that what they hold in their silences silences: sometimes a boy will slip from his climbing, drown but the myth knows why, sometimes a boy will swing with the leaves.”
—Southern Gothic by Rickey Laurentiis
“1. How is it out? Is, from the sky, water still coming? Are trees out? Do you hear their argument? Do you know it for an argument: how to manage (they are yelling) this weather? Where are birds? Why are they made clairvoyant—flitting off, fluttering like leaves on a single branch: they know to evacuate, to separate from the living world, about to be changed, world, and the trees—? 2. Though I cannot see you still I know it is you: man with the hard kiss, the touch of Scorpion in his blood. That means life for you is absolute. There is either hunger or no hunger. There is either a body pleased—. You ain’t been blue, no, no, no: the radio’s dim utterance—the sole utterance. This dark house. The way we move, aimless—is that an utterance? The dishes slowly washed: ignorance or utterance? The weather outside, weather, and the trees—. 3. They are still trees, right, slamming the roof-tiles? They are trees—the world not yet totally remade? 4. There is either a body pleased— or no body. Violence or there is creation. How are they out? Not palmetto. I mean, oak. I mean, magnolia. Aren’t they lonely? Don’t they feel somehow cheated, somehow violated? Here is my body for you to use and also to protect—that was their contract with the birds, who are gone, who didn’t tell us they were gone. Are you listening? Can you tell me where they went? Tell me of their solitude. How they share it. Tell me how to be that alone (here is my body, Scorpio, won’t you top it?) —together and alone. 5. Is the body responsive?—your question. But don’t you feel me? My body’s tremor? My legs? My back-in-an-arc? Each trembling as if each the alcove for where the birds go? 6. Splinters are not trees. Trees are not flesh. Here is the scene: Two men. Blacked-out. Half-embracing. As, from the sky, falls the still-coming water. Life is absolute. There is either danger in this house or there is love. Either fear in the radio’s voice (your arrogance will not protect you) or there is love. Where are the gods now, prophecy in a hard beak? Let them say: Your body will not be spared. Let them say: Your life is not recyclable like the trees.”
—rickey laurentiis, mood indigo.You Are Not Christ by Rickey Laurentiis
For the drowning, yes, there is always panic.
Or peace. Your body behaving finally by instinct
alone. Crossing out wonder. Crossing out
a need to know. You only feel you need to live.
That you deserve it. Even here. Even as your chest
fills with a strange new air, you will not ask
what this means. Like prey caught in the wolf’s teeth,
but you are not the lamb. You are what’s in the lamb
that keeps it kicking. Let it.
“ New Orleans, Louisiana For the drowning, yes, there is always panic. Or peace. Your body behaving finally by instinct alone. Crossing out wonder. Crossing out a need to know. You only feel you need to live. That you deserve it. Even here. Even as your chest fills with a strange new air, you will not ask what this means. Like prey caught in the wolf’s teeth, but you are not the lamb. You are what’s in the lamb that keeps it kicking. Let it. ”
—You Are Not ChristRickey Laurentiis
"Southern Gothic," Rickey Laurentiis
About the dead having available to them
all breeds of knowledge,
some pure, others wicked, especially what is
future, and the history that remains
once the waters recede, revealing the land
that couldn’t reject or contain it, and the land
that is not new, is indigo, is ancient, lived
as all the trees that fit and clothe it are lived,
simple pine, oak, grand magnolia, he said
they frighten him, that what they hold in their silences
silences: sometimes a boy will slip
from his climbing, drown but the myth knows why,
sometimes a boy will swing with the leaves.
“It’s a shame when grown-folks see it get to storming and blow it’s time to go in. What more are porches made for if not for rain? I know if it were honey and fell steady as it does now to make sweet candy of the roads, we’d be out there. Hell, we’d be swimming in it, our bodies flat and laid down like a burden, arms up, even ladies’ legs spread: just do anything to be both brown and sugar again. Though I can see that stickiness fixing itself to the brain, treating it like a can, rusting it, then those prayers calling out please, Lord, open up with water till their skins would no more hum with flies, till every face was clean. I’ll take my gamble though, belly-sliding through that bee-spit. So go on, call me childish, but—be honest, man— won’t you join me? Won’t you help me find a road to make a cross out of us, Southern since it’s us, where the only place to go is for you to go in me?”
—rickey laurentiis, honeycombed.Poem: "You are Not Christ" (Rickey Laurentiis)
New Orleans, Louisiana
For the drowning, yes, there is always panic.
Or peace. Your body behaving finally by instinct
alone. Crossing out wonder. Crossing out
a need to know. You only feel you need to live.
That you deserve it. Even here. Even as your chest
fills with a strange new air, you will not ask
what this means. Like prey caught in the wolf’s teeth,
but you are not the lamb. You are what’s in the lamb
that keeps it kicking. Let it.
“That the light stalks your skin, no, that your skin makes it: a radiating hum, jive, a freedom, a beehive packed just as much with honey as does it hazard; also, a balm for where the sting sits, a treaty, country upon which I first laid my claim, but was usurped; where carefully do I move to cross it again. Now here come my lips to it, pink over your body’s good bark. Now here is my mouth, entire. I’m scared of you, baby, it says, scared like a god is of his faithful—and like the faithful. Light -struck. Delighted. Terrorstuck. Come, lift up your gates, your countenance spread like a lily upon me: whip me, I am so whipped. These are my eyes.”
—rickey laurentiis, take it easy.We aren’t the solid men.
We bend like the number seven.
Dig at corners, eat cobwebs, we
are barefoot and bare-legged.
We hang like leaves in autumn.
We aren’t the stolid men.
We scribble in familiar ink
about sun falls and night. We
see the white in the sky, and sigh.
We lie with penciled grind.
- Rickey Laurentiis
“About the dead having available to them
all breeds of knowledge,
some pure, others wicked, especially what is
future, and the history that remains
once the waters recede, revealing the land
that couldn’t reject or contain it, and the land
that is not new, is indigo, is ancient, lived
as all the trees that fit and clothe it are lived,
simple pine, oak, grand magnolia, he said
they frighten him, that what they hold in their silences
silences: sometimes a boy will slip
from him climbing, drown but the myth knows why,
sometimes a boy will swing with leaves.”
Rickey Laurentiis, “Southern Gothic”
