HomePosts Tagged "Tracy Sopko"

by Tracy Sopko As summer painted the night with thunder, Time collapsed down on the grass, his legs akimbo, his white hair mussed about his head like the stuffing pulled from a too-loved teddy bear. Soft flashes of fairy light danced in and out of the subtly bruised clouds. Death grew roots out of his walking shoes, buried his toes into the dirt, dropped his hood and made the decision to take the night off. The stillness of the Southern night was complete. Tracy Sopko was born and raised in small Florida town, hovering, like the state itself, on the fringes of Southern culture. She currently lives in Jacksonville and attends the University of North Florida.

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by Tracy Sopko Dust isn’t so hard to come by in the South. What with so many sources: The powdered sugar remnants of primordial bodies, The sun-burnt flaking paint of seven thousand and thirty two Condemned once-homes, And the equally scorched and peeling remnants of once-people, There is enough dust here to inter a culture. Under the auspices of an isolationist Mason-Dixon We would coalesce. State lines soften, Then give way entirely - weather patterns and jet streams Melding misshapen clods. Swept behind the Mexico-couch And best left forgotten. These aren’t memories in the attic to be brought down a rickety flight of stairs, and Picked through with the grandkids. These aren’t the Ill-fitted pieces of nostalgia. No, this is skin, twelve years old, with a dust bowl haircut Nothing approaching style, but with a hint of Pizzazz in the economy of it. No, This is dust like Nuclear fallout, Or triangular trade runoff. This is dust like war, Dust like war paint, This is the dust of the survivors. Tracy Sopko was born and raised in small Florida town, hovering, like the state itself, on the fringes of Southern culture. She currently lives in Jacksonville and attends the University of North Florida.

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