Pensacola may not be in the heart of Dixie,
but it is in the aorta (if the aorta was upside down).
Our cuisine is macaroni and cheese any way we can get it
and grits 5-ways to Saturday & 6-ways to Sunday.
If you put sugar in your grits, You ain’t right.
We love us some Cajun boiled peanuts in brown paper bags
and nanner puddin’ in sheet pans at every potluck.
Everything else, we fry and wash down with sweet iced tea.
Gardenias sway like flouncy-skirted temptresses,
releasing their fragrance like a pheromone;
the azaleas pop out without care,
for water is in the air;
privet clusters and crepe myrtles take flight like dandelion seeds.
The iconic Graffiti Bridge on 17th Avenue
is our landmark for free expression.
Facebook pages are dedicated to it.
Everything from breasts to Bush for President
has been painted on there for a day.
There’s the 1000-plus member Baptist church,
pastored by the fire-headed preacher with the big teeth—
an Elmer Gantry-type personality who’s found his Zenith, Missouri.
If you’re in need,
they will give you expired food for free.
“Bless your hearts, you’re going to hell,”
one of the lady parishioners tells a pair of Mormon missionaries—
the ones that ride around town on bicycles,
marked as Elder This and Elder That,
even though they are young.
They don’t know what to think;
they don’t talk about Jesus this much in Utah,
and church here for many is just a Sunday thing,
’cause they already be saved.
Everyone is either saved or damned;
there’s always somebody praying for you,
passing the buck to God.
If you say you’re spiritual but not religious,
well, you’re just trying to have your red velvet cake and eat it, too.
Jesus was a Socialist, I hear from the liberals
who don’t believe in Him anyway—
at least the One with all the rules—
while those wearing Confederate flag tees say,
“God only helps those who help themselves.”
At one street corner, a well-dressed group is waving their Bibles and yelling;
at the other, a homeless man is holding up a cardboard sign that says,
Anything helps, God bless.
The homeless are like the trees that sway in the gulf breeze;
they have become part of the landscape
that’s made up of shuttered businesses and brand-spankin’ new homes
built next door to shitholes.
Cars wallpapered in Bible quotes drive by churches with signs that say,
“Do Jesus a favor by putting yourself in His,”
“God’s will can be your way,”
and “An apple one day turned God away.”
Everyone is pro-choice here—
it’s just a matter of whom they want to save:
the unborn or the incarcerated?
Which does Jesus save?
The sinful or sinless?
Don’t you have to be born to be in sin?
There is no separation of Church and State here;
politics and religion are one and the same.
Here, God is omnipresent.
Hot spells compete with cold snaps;
it’s usually boiling hot or freezing cold,
with just a few days of spring scattered—
like parsley on a plate of glorified scrambled eggs.
When a hurricane knocks the power out,
we can be found taking several cool showers a day,
the damp towels hardly drying in the humidity,
leaving them smelling mildewy—
as if they’d been left in the washer too long.
During those times, our family would be fine dining
in the Sacred Heart Hospital cafeteria.
We want hot food in a cold room—
not the other way around.
There were no squirrels for a long time after Ivan—
they got blown away.
Every week, there’s a hit-and-run;
cyclists and pedestrians:
be green and poor at your own risk.
Every day, there’s roadkill baking on the asphalt—
probably enough critters to fill all the potholes in town.
In the T.T. Wentworth Museum,
a petrified cat is on display.
Beach-themed crap is everywhere;
the weather reports are endless.
Its called the Deep South because its like a pit
that you fall in and can’t scrabble your way out of—
not because you’re broken,
but rather, because you’re broken in
and baked into the bread pudding that is the Redneck Riviera.
The South is still proud of its Southerness—
even for using don’t when it should be doesn’t.
but for storytellers,