"Love in the South"

                               Southern thermometer flatlands, through dust-filled screen windows. Invisible heat surfaces, refracts; penetrates dry heaving background foliage. Backyard kitchen automobile highway blues; we go digging up soiled grass stones. Grandma in her Sunday vacuum get-up too early, just awoke. Rural summer sweltering highway patrol forums. Pawnshop clearance arenas, strip-mall delicacies. Scotch whiskey daytime fantasies; Cecilia in her rolled torn garters; exhibiting pale naked body. Exposed thighs on symmetrically intricate feminine portrait wallpaper framing. Petite at sunrise, in hand-me-down sundress garments.
                              Mercury sand mirages reflect sultry outlandish desert outskirts. On suburban perimeters lazily outstretched before predictable pink sunrise. Dawn awakenings and ceiling fan entrances. Languid vestibules of Confederate lineage. Rooster crows at breaking noon; daytime television and lemonade spoons. Something dies around here every lingering second. Eternities washed away at the swipe of a brow; sweating profusely in tap dance intervals. Gun shop teenage girls turning August neighborhood corners in maladjusted vanity; inferior, scrutinizing Lame Billy the auto mechanic (talks even slower in this heat that boils the beating blood).
                                Upon making love in abandoned parlor settlements, shuttered corridors and Patsy Cline died in an air crash a long time ago. Tapestries of unfolded wax paper dolls. Curly eyes get stuck in electrical sockets and tied frayed knots. Majestic sequins outline bible-belt princess incest standards. Take me little mama, daughter, family, lover, penetrating forbidden dripping lust and stubborn desire; she kicks like a frustrated mule in temped heat. Tumbleweeds of ancient song; illustrious designs of station wagon-wheels and high heels, riding up so high; beseechingly grazing the northern sky. Tax-free bastards in Delaware, stale merchant vagabonds reside in Virginia. The west was won when Robert E. Lee signed up for food stamps and dismal welfare checks.
                                 Kiln blue phosphorescence, of sacred sky constellation chambers hang like dead ladles full of thick, dense porridge pouring savory meteorites into abundant havens of fiberglass. Burial ground antics; sediment and sentiment (she came here to die, let her be). We all  start here with bad directions, wanting money through salvaging slavery and sharecrop. When the village rests through dusk-filled corridors, make your visit to me. Anticipating your arrival with a box full of condoms, and a turn-of-the-century-dust-bowl-filled jar of clay molasses and tater-tots