Poetry

by Danny Wayne Cotton (Notes) on Thursday, April 28, 2011 at 1:16pm

(I had a Prose Poem assignment, I did this)

The Six Wives of Henry VIII

Catherine of Aragon was first, devoutly Catholic, got to keep her head. Henry’s all, “no son?–DIVORCE,” Pope’s all “from Ferdinand and Isabella’s kid? Dude, seriously?” so Henry’s all, pretty much, “English Reformation.” Pope’s all, “Motherfucker, I’m the Pope.” Henry’s all “Well, I’m the King,” Catherine’s all “Divorce pisses off God,” but Henry didn’t care he wanted to be on to Anne Boleyn.

Young, noble chick. Some folks called her a slut. A little unfair, but, hey, she’s the one Henry got all hot, bothered and divorce-y for. Had a girl, lil redhead (nobody thought THAT lil girl would amount to too much). But she miscarried everything with a y chromosome. That made Henry’s buddies kind of nervous, particularly Thomas Cromwell. Did I mention Cromwell thought she was a threat to his power? And that Ole Tom had, evidently, read Machiavelli’s new book. Anne was the first one that lost a head.

And Henry was already checking out Jane Seymour. She’s his (cough) fifth cousin (cough). Her Catholicism won Henry’s daughter Mary some favor. She has the boy child, Eddie VI. This was a B-F-D! Like, the whole reason Henry upset his apple cart with the Pope and cut Anne’s head off. Then, uh, she died. Childbirth was a bitch back then.

An acceptable bit of grieving, but a King needs a wife, so on to Anne of Cleves. Nice lady. German royalty. Not, however, hot. Henry had high standards relative to Hugh Hefner so their contract was all, “she smells like a 14th century German, he wants to fuck everything that walks, we didn’t consummate anything, wedding doesn’t count.” She got a castle, the title of King’s Beloved Sister and, since she was Lutheran, no Pope BS, so…all things being relative…worked out pretty good for Anne of Cleves, whom Henry left because he was ass over teakettle for Catherine Howard. Hot, twenty, Anne Boleyn’s cousin. Like most hot, twenty year old rich girls, not really into this whole “300 lb man twice my age” thing. There’s a lot of chatter over what she did-with whom and when-but everybody knows it’s something she shouldn’t’ve. After Parliament passes some “all up in the Queen Consort’s business” bill, they find some incriminating love notes, she goes to the Tower of London, the ax blade goes WHACK.

But somebody’s gotta take care of Henry’s big old ass so he found Catherine Parr, who, in a weird twist, was named after Henry’s first wife. Evidently, the chick was bad luck, she’d already been widowed twice before she got to Henry. Doesn’t matter much, he’s fifty one and, back then, that might as well’ve been ninety one. She does get him back in touch with his daughters. Hell, even gets to be in charge while Henry’s taking care of some shit in France. She outlived the legendary protestant glutton, married another guy a few months later, had a kid by him and sniped with the other royalty until she either died from childbirth complications or got poisoned by a man who wanted to marry her ex-husband’s little redheaded daughter.

“1 (8oz) package of Macaroni”
Now…see, that isn’t specific enough, no
You need little elbow macaronis,
shells in a pinch.

yadda yadda “butter”
yadda yadda “flour”
yadda yadda “milk”

“1 lb. Velveeta cheese”
Now you’re talking.
And, no don’t mess around with
cheddar, american, gruyere, whatever.
The only way you’re gonna do like Mamaw
and get that smooth, silky, milky,
oozes-all-over-everything-else-on-the-plate
consistency?

Velveeta

Then, once the macaroni is tender,
you gotta start making the mixture,
“stir constantly.”
This is where my generation might be
flubbing it up. Why it’s always.
just a little off
when we fix macaroni.
Momaw is mindful of macaroni.
Chant that.

The stirring turns the Velveeta, milk and flour into
divine electric yellow goop.

“add macaroni, mix well”
And ignore that crap about the bread crumbs,
double ignore baking it to unnatural death,
and triple ignore folks who start throwing in peppers, spices, whatever the hell else.

This is, I believe, where many fail.
They want the macaroni to be like something served
in a trendy soul food cafe you’d read about in “Garden and Gun.”

Well, that’s like putting too much makeup on a cute country girl.
Velveeta goo is subtle, understated and perfect all by itself.

Of course, it will sit next to
city ham, rolls,
cooked to death green beans with salt pork,
baked apples with melted marshmallows on top,
broccoli or sweet potato casserole,
them fried chicken dippers the kids like.

But amongst 10 or 15 Cottons?
It’s the centerpiece,
it’s what everybody’s eating,
it is, as my Aunt Terri always jokes,
our family’s favorite vegetable.

By Danny Wayne Cotton

She’s very Clara Bow
She’s very Sally Bowles
Decadent, but artistically so
Angelic, some would say.

Who knows?

She dances to the music
Not counting beats
Or dollars or moves
And, it’s kind of sweet
They say she’s broken more hearts
Up and down the line
By simply paying them little mind
And all her best shots are in black and white
Is she even a child of the neon night?

The girls all gossip
Hell, women are mean
But they can’t get a handle on Lil Laurine
Some say she’s been to Paris
Some say she’s been to Rome
Some say she left with a leftist poet
But she came back alone
She’s wined and dined at Chez Josephine
Jean Claude is a friend of hers, indeed
She’s known all around Rue Bourbon
For the things they say she hasn’t done
Because she really can dance
It’s no gyno show
She aint in it for the twos
The young boys throw

Her regulars, with Beaux Arts pretensions
Come into the club with dual intentions
While they heap their praise on Lil Laurine
The other girls feel viewed ironically

Savannah thinks if they had their way
Only Lil Laurine would take the stage
But Savannah can’t parlez vous France
And the hustle’s how she gets her way

But Lil Laurine’s different, I can’t say why
As she flirts with the moon and charms night.

By Danny Wayne Cotton

Savannah, the Melungeon Princess and me
All lit our first or last
Depends on how you see the world
When five AM done past
The princess laughed at nothing
Savannah wryly smiled
And over the empty bottles
I quietly philosophied
“Have you ever met Busty Dusty
The queen of Rodeo girls?”
The Melungeon Princess offered
Giving her short hair a twirl
I said “no I haven’t, this Dusty must be new”
Savannah laughed sardonically
“She aint no ingénue”
The Melungeon Princess, passionate, claimed
“She’s no little girl
But Busty Dusty’s aged just like a fine Italian port,
She doesn’t fit the clichés
Goes only for what’s real
Charms and throws out repartee like a hillbilly Jayne Mansfield”
“Now,” I interjected
“Hearin’ that’s enough
Hell she’d probably remind me of my lost Kentucky love”
Savannah looked up scornful, from eyes a hazel hue
And almost spat “what’s it
With blue eyes and you?”
The Princess saved my honor
Said, “he’s still held me close
And what he did with Tara,” she winked
“Heaven only knows
So let’s forget our tattoos our failings and our scars
Cause even when our soul’s left earth them things won’t be gone”
The three of us just sat their
Pondering the heft
You just try living through the night
To find a zen like that
I glanced over at the Princess
And she kissed my forhead
Them freckled Melungeon cheeks just smiled
“Cowboy let’s us go to bed”

By Danny Wayne Cotton

Why do I
keep scribbling
poetry?
Huh?
I never show it
to the muses
good or ill
It’s always derivative
I’m just
about
to reach
for a tired Sisyphus metaphor

Urrrgh

poetry is punching walls
poetry is drinking listerine
poetry is smoking butts
poetry is inability
to even
want
to sleep
at two a.m.
alone with the reruns

When it’s good
though
poetry is nine ball banks
exquisite, no slop, torture

By Danny Wayne Cotton

So, I had to watch Disney princess songs with my lil cousin. One song was just a montage of all of ‘em, or all of ‘em up to the point it was produced. It was markedly clear that Ariel was her favorite (or her favorite at that particular second) and she has just gotten into Snow and the Dwarves, which is kinda cool, but when the montage got to my favorite, I tried to influence her thinking a little. Then I wrote this down.

You Don’t Wanna be Ariel

Kiddo,
I know you’re way too young
For critical analysis
But what does Ariel do?

She gives up
the best things
she has
beautiful voice
cool little underwater buddies
calypso musical numbers
for some
dumb
sailor

Be like Mulan
she picks up a sword
honors her ancestors
and gets a good looking guy
with a good f’in job
to notice
and subsequently
love her
for her courage
toughness and skill

“I wanna be Sleeping Beauty!”
sigh
I’ll explain this when you’re a lil older

By Danny Wayne Cotton (Monday, April 25, 2011 at 2:15am)

“Why you think he said ‘eat of my body, drink of my blood/”
“I duno, man. “Maybe it was symbolic.”
“HEY, nobody pour the wine down the drain for right now.”
“How often you fellas think we should do it?”
“Every day!”
“Wine gets expensive, what about every Sunday?”
“Whatabbout every once in a while, so long as we remember the good stuff he did?”
“Hey, Big Rocky, whatta you think?”

“I’m just trying to get over you guys turning into human candlesticks
and talking funny languages
at the early service.”

“That gust of wind was pretty awesome, though, you gotta admit.”

“Guys, shut up for a minute and pray.”

By Danny Wayne Cotton
(Tonight’s poem, the last in a trilogy, I end with humor, June 23, 2011 at 2:20am)

How come, when somebody said,
“she’s a ‘red woman, ‘ man
She’s got that scarlet letter’
She could afford that oil,
She’s a slut,”

Nobody said,
‘So what if she was?
She rolled with the Main Man,
and the gang
She witnessed the sacrifice,
She was the first one at the grave and,
When she got the news,

She hurried to tell the gang who,
I might add,
were hiding out

So would you
Shut the fuck up
About whether or not
She was a slut?”

By Danny Wayne Cotton (Monday June 20, 2011 at 1:11 am)

If that one dances to
Van-Halen’s “Little Dreamer”
I’ll tip her ten bucks.

By Danny Wayne Cotton (Friday June 17, 2011 at 3:03pm)

Once upon a time,
‘round this time of night,

The man everybody
thinks
still
has the keys to the lock
and the list at the door—

y’know,
Rocky,

Was sayin’
to a hipster girl,
who thought she recognized him,
“Of where? Never met him.”

Made his way,
down festival crowed streets,
full of shouts
and said,
to a distracting passerby,
“a what? A carpenter?”

And, haggard,
distracted,
he stumbled into a bar,
rip roaring with the news,
ordered.

“You hear about this…”
ask the barman.

“Man,”
he answers,
scanning the room,
forehead sweat.
“I don’t follow all that bullshit.”

While Dagger,
only one the Main Man
ever
trusted with the money,

on the outskirts of town,
drops a billfold full
of forty large,

starts to tear up,
“What’d I do to my brotherman?”

Slips the rope
and kicks the stool

Think on that.

By Danny Wayne Cotton

It seems like she really likes me, so I reminded her
“Be careful of something that’s just what you want it to be.”
‘Cause I will quote Waylon in romantic situations and
She’s sweet enough to deserve a warning at least.

“Be careful of something that’s just what you want it to be,”
Since we’re well beyond “Ladies love outlaws,”
She’s sweet enough to deserve a warning. At least
I didn’t quote no Nashville, Toby Keith.

Since we’re well beyond “Ladies love outlaws,”
I needed to tell her I’ve always been crazy.
I didn’t quote no Nashville, Toby Keith,
I can see this might be going somewhere.

I needed to tell her “I’ve Always Been Crazy,”
(cause I’ll quote Waylon in romantic situations) and
I can see this might be going somewhere,
It seems she really likes me. So, I reminded her.

By Danny Wayne Cotton

Again
In dreams
I find you
The drip
drip
drip
From that leaky pipe in the corner
…don’t bother me none
The broken glint
Through
two
four
six
Bars in my window
…don’t bother me none
And, loud as ever
The proud
unending
Roar
that is Hambone’s snore
…don’t bother me none

I’m a Prichard County boy
from Linkhorn Lake, I’ll confess
So I really can’t
imagine
too much

I can’t imagine riches
since I never seen money
do nothin’ but leave

I can’t imagine city lights
but I have been to
lexington
once

Laying here I,
Prichard County to my bones,
Can imagine paradise
and not the one Pastor Buford use to preach at the church on the lake
and not the one that new Garvis Preacher says no greedy operators
shall enter…

…my dream is the one
I’ve been to before
Skin so soft
Warm
Clean
pressing closer to my body
Lips so sweet
Cool
Inviting
resting dangerously close
to my unshaven face
Hair so fine
Whispy
Dark
tickling my nerves
A whisper so lilting
lyrical
kind to my ears
… “sleep, Matchstick”
as I drift off to sleep

…again, in dreams, I find you

By Danny Wayne Cotton

Women,
Beautiful,
Witty,
Little crazy,
Love ‘em

Whiskey,
On the rocks
Pool,
Straight
Literature,
Music,
Accents,
Food,
Locales,
Preferably Southern

Read,
Fitz
Faulkner
Hank
Hunter
Playboy
(and I mean read it)

I only watch
Horseracing
when I’m alone

with other lonely people

at a bar

By Danny Wayne Cotton

I got a type A mind with a type B will
An itchy trigger finger that never can kill
A palimony pal that don’t understand
My skull tattoo or my cold smoking hand
And all that’s worth toasting is absent friends
Who embrace the night every now and then
But friends and lovers never could see
Nighttime’s the lifestyle choice for me
And sometimes it’s better and sometimes it’s worse
Never been no blessing, but hardly a curse
And deals unlike taverns never do seem to close
It’s raining, anyway, so all the lovers are home
To tick away one more dull scripted kiss
While he’s praying for some missionary position gee whiz
It might be good I aint him cause that’d drive me to drink
But I don’t need no chauffeur with a sensuous streak
And a bent up perception of that fickle old truth
A penchant for leaving companions kinda blue

No, I’m standing on the corner of Rose street and Vine
Picking up something to ease my mind
But I know in the morning it’s more of the same
Cause I’ve already decided I’m forgetting her name

By Danny Wayne Cotton

My buddy,
he bets she’s wild
After all,
she’s only had it once
and it was with a mediocre poet
that’s not interesting enough
for anybody
to hate

Without doubting
the validity of his argument
I guestion
the finer points

For “wild”
implies
some masculine fantasy
dirty talking
closet nymphomaniac
porno princess

Not that a closet nymphomaniac
Is necessarily bad

She just aint one

I was told so
on no
uncertain
terms

But I’ll bet,
by god,
she’s playful

I could imagine her
flirtatiously
singsongy
french words
that I can’t
quite
conjugate
and eating peanut ice cream
in cotton panties
and not sharing
the ice cream

Romantic?
Yes
Stupid?
Maybe
Possible?
Who knows

And wouldn’t I prefer that
To the porno princess?

Well,
it all depends,
sometimes innocent
is a hell of a lot more dangerous

By Danny Wayne Cotton

We got a hundred and twenty years of coal.
Six more generations callin’ Hazard home,
water runnin’ red down the mountain side.
We gonna hit the mountain parkway and we gonna drive
a century and a score from now,
When Appalachy’s black gold all runs out.

Well granddaddy went down in the ground,
ton by ton he pulled the mountains down.
Well daddy he’d chop off the top,
me and bubby learn’t to haul it off
And in a hundred twenty years who knows
where they’ll take all them ole miner’s bones

When that one hundred
twenty year hammer falls,
Will the south fork even be there at all?
Will the people in the holler mean
a goddamned thing
when there’s no more mines or
Kennedy’s?

By Danny Wayne Cotton