New Writing

My favorite uncle, Dean Witherspoon, died up in Michigan a couple of years ago. He was my father's little brother and the last of four brothers. He taught me a lot about life and love and family, including how to suck a raw egg, after lubricating my throat with several shots of cheap whiskey. He had quite a sense of humor. Following is a small tribute to him.


AND ALL WHO STAND BELOW

Last night after the sun tumbled
I heard my uncle singing the blues
at a club down along Sixth Street
even though I now hold the cartridges
from his twenty-one gun salute
in the belly of my calloused palm.

At midnight I sail over green water
thinking I never knew he played
the harp and wondering how he
came to play here in Austin without
me seeing his golden jeep pass by
our little house on Lavaca Street.

Holding the cancer cough tight
within his lungs with a hand over his
heart he teaches me how to suck
an egg by poking a hole in each
end then inhaling and gutting it out
with the help of cheap whiskey.

Why is no one mourning, I ask?
At the snowy cemetery in Michigan
he stands erect and tanned saluting
before he drops his pants to his ankles
and moons the emerging liquid stars
and all who stand below them.

If I had a Holga, I'd Holga in the morning.

I recently bought a couple of Holga cameras to experiment with my daughter. Then I did some research on line and found some great examples of awesome Holga shots. So I took some existing photos and used Photoshop to created these Holgaesque images. I love the looseness and freedom. I will get out soon and use my Holgas, but this was just for fun.


































Photos by Kyla Witherspoon. Manipulation by Kendall Witherspoon.

New Writing

YOU ASKED

me to write a poem
about the miles & miles & miles
of yellow line painted
on the left side of
the freeway,
unbroken
except
for eight inches
at mile marker 73
on I-96 near Bridgman
which one frigid day heaved
up into a black asphalt cube,
yellow on one side,
sitting proud
just to the side
of the road,
cars filled with
millions of unwritten
poems passing by
without notice.