Laid in the grass
And the twinkle reminded me
Of Lisvboa
And all the times we dreamed of the big jet plane
To take us away to Augusta
As if the New World
Was a concept
And not a broken land-mirror
Through time
And everywhere we had abandoned.
Microbiomes redacted into
Permanent-poisonous succession.
Stuck on the third step.
Why try a kind-of-something
And take it on the run, instead.
I still think like that.
Constantly hiding running.
Distant.
I hadn’t told a truth and only lies for over 16 years.
No one knew me.
And my appearance and subtle change in dialogue were the closer cues
To knowing 67 has been damned since 34.
Not good numbers.
Numerology or otherwise.
Can’t be taken back.
And in my solitude.
The Rays of Rah
Exclaiming sighs over the olives, jute, twine
And the towering Magnolia
Reminded me –
There was a Life before this.
It wasn’t Israel or Rome
Or trips to Cypress
And secrets muys and tours onto Crete to get my shit back.
Just my backyard.
New Galilee.
The Original before we all Got Lost.
On some Desert Plane.
Pangea the Pangolin and every wire a frame and every sword crossed in thorn.
The Planet has been soaked in blood.
And I never blew the horn to stop.
Abused or trafficked Warden.
I’ve been playing a Game.
Jigsaw circular saws.
And I say no Carpenter, Maison.
Even if I do look good in hunter-green-custodial-jumpsuit.
Fire or other grace, my own fury.
It was murky,
This is where I was born.
My childhood room.
Convinced it was Toronto, London, Bristol knocking
On my heart’s swoone.
I always told you I have to get back home.
Why do you want to Leave?
I don’t like it here anymore.
It just the path to leeds.
And the path that lead,
And the pine tree I always looked up to.
I was born in this room.
There was no midwife nor doula.
Subjected to Time in built up hospital room.
Let it go to shit.
Saved your mortgage too.
North Carolina Gal,
I hate to say it.
Perhaps, that’s why everyone was so mean.
Griselda got defensive and claimed Cali for Honor.
Doesn’t mean much to a Native.
I’m the only Croatoan left.
This is Roanoke.
500 years recycled in Filth.
Midheaven.
petrichor - archive 