In My Kentucky
by Jonathan Treadway
In my Kentucky,
the sky is wrapped with turncoat hades and hooded cobweb clouds.
The vulgar, roving and verdant landscape is dotted with sinkholes
and ragged mounds of red clay, where shadows linger.
These confining years are drunk on the venom of restraint.
Where schizophrenic whims of winter
confuse and stand like a mantle,
where the arrows of disquiet,
of bitter stitch, always hit upon
their hunting target to the soundtrack of south central,
Kentucky Penny Rile, regional pride and shame that has an echo
you can rent to own.
In my Kentucky,
hometowns are jealous ex- lovers
sealed in their unforgiving
who sting you with the clap
and claim they are pregnant when you’re half- way out the door.
In my Kentucky,
superstition is colored as truth
and deadpan hesitation is a familiar game.
The dead dig graves for the living.
And most folks bury their imaginations
for a factory time card before the age of 21.
Claimed by old-fashioned misery,
they lose themselves in the hobby of counting
the graffiti of time on their brows.
And colors begin to fade amongst the fabric of lonely hills
where black heart glory blossoms
and common corpses sing bluegrass songs.
The untilled fields yielding blooms of farewell
wear the dross of dead ends and ghosted dreams
and hell’s gate is shaped like Mammoth Cave.
This backwards, holy, enticing, spirit- laced land
has danced us into a room of bloated, bourbon night
humming the songs of our fates.
In my Kentucky,
they praise the Lord down in deep tradition pastures,
damned with an inert life.
And girls pray with dirty hands,
with secrets that won’t wash off their skin,
and God is half Baptist and half Pentecostal and just a pinch catholic.
In my Kentucky,
high school
cheerleaders dipped snuff.
And whiskey perverted everything, even the teacher’s breath.
Where the barber also farms tobacco.
Where underneath that fabled moon,
brothers become strangers, self- destructing.
Where the land wears darkness like a dog wags its tail,
like a deacon wears a tie.
In my Kentucky,
like an old coat worn, my patience is hanged
and rusting like an old hinge.
Cause it’s hard to face some facts,
that one of these days this uncommon commonwealth
is going to be the death of me,
because it’s harvest time in my southern decline
and my fields are all laid empty.
And you know, the devil always whispers and sings
“there aint no place like Dixie land”
in my Kentucky.
by Jonathan Treadway
In my Kentucky,
the sky is wrapped with turncoat hades and hooded cobweb clouds.
The vulgar, roving and verdant landscape is dotted with sinkholes
and ragged mounds of red clay, where shadows linger.
These confining years are drunk on the venom of restraint.
Where schizophrenic whims of winter
confuse and stand like a mantle,
where the arrows of disquiet,
of bitter stitch, always hit upon
their hunting target to the soundtrack of south central,
Kentucky Penny Rile, regional pride and shame that has an echo
you can rent to own.
In my Kentucky,
hometowns are jealous ex- lovers
sealed in their unforgiving
who sting you with the clap
and claim they are pregnant when you’re half- way out the door.
In my Kentucky,
superstition is colored as truth
and deadpan hesitation is a familiar game.
The dead dig graves for the living.
And most folks bury their imaginations
for a factory time card before the age of 21.
Claimed by old-fashioned misery,
they lose themselves in the hobby of counting
the graffiti of time on their brows.
And colors begin to fade amongst the fabric of lonely hills
where black heart glory blossoms
and common corpses sing bluegrass songs.
The untilled fields yielding blooms of farewell
wear the dross of dead ends and ghosted dreams
and hell’s gate is shaped like Mammoth Cave.
This backwards, holy, enticing, spirit- laced land
has danced us into a room of bloated, bourbon night
humming the songs of our fates.
In my Kentucky,
they praise the Lord down in deep tradition pastures,
damned with an inert life.
And girls pray with dirty hands,
with secrets that won’t wash off their skin,
and God is half Baptist and half Pentecostal and just a pinch catholic.
In my Kentucky,
high school
cheerleaders dipped snuff.
And whiskey perverted everything, even the teacher’s breath.
Where the barber also farms tobacco.
Where underneath that fabled moon,
brothers become strangers, self- destructing.
Where the land wears darkness like a dog wags its tail,
like a deacon wears a tie.
In my Kentucky,
like an old coat worn, my patience is hanged
and rusting like an old hinge.
Cause it’s hard to face some facts,
that one of these days this uncommon commonwealth
is going to be the death of me,
because it’s harvest time in my southern decline
and my fields are all laid empty.
And you know, the devil always whispers and sings
“there aint no place like Dixie land”
in my Kentucky.
