telling of tales

I have considered my work and what manner of story I am able to tell What did I see as eyes witness What did I hear of What did I dream up without meaning to What did I know as lies and keep regardless

Memory is not daguerrotypes You cannot get the past to sit entirely still It will not behave neither do I make any portrait saloon in my mind Fine chairs and brocades for a look of drama and import

My meaning is to capture the wrinkle and clouded eye and stained collar as much as the story And to knife off that which does not serve Leave it for day pigs

My memory does not always obey me even when I prompt him with kicks like a mind were a workshy horse Neither does my knife obey I done my best by my compass I drawn some folk uglier Drawn my favorites more handsome Hair shined more than it were Less tobacco spit crusted on britches Out of manners I have not talked any of outhouses Chamberpots Infants released back into the arms of the lord so soon your heart would burst Who would want such a tale with honest warp Who wants to know what a sadness life is A mind would go soft at the labor of reading Such a vista would fever your brains

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