I’m going to our Kansas. Behind me, friends, family, and the winding
Road. Island. Ocean. Continent. I am bound only by the territorial lines set up by
White Insolent Sodomites Crying On Newly Stolen Intersections Naively.
Some of them cry because it’s a place where they used to be called Friend.
And some of them cry because our country is a corpse made of a Virgin, ya?
Some are still sad that Washington’s dead.
Because it’d be too much of a stretch to connect a cut to someone of Color. Ado
Is not the domain of the people I pass. More often than not, their domain is New Jersey
And these varmint vermin viz a viz a mirage vehemently stick to guns, god,
Or a gone time, all equally comforting, but who needs God when you’ve got
All the Misery in a bottle you could ever stomach, all for the low, low cost of innocence
And the kind of sin that’d make a twelve-year-old miss a sippy cup.
Yes, I drink and drive. Oh? High only puts myself at risk?
If I weren’t high, I’d be living in a city of confusion and mash-mish again.
I can’t go back to the place. I need to get to Kansas.
I don’t have the time to sit around why-oh-me-ing.
eveN thE rehaB abuseR/alumnA abuseS cracK A
Fine suburban evening. Even if crack was not their Main drug.
So, I’ve left that awful city, and entered a new one without sleep or pain.
Only the flashing neon thought “The World Is Yours” plastered across my frontal lobe.
It’s worth my time to appreciate the ill noise,
And I’ll stop at malt shops to drink their mini-soda.
And to stroll across deserted arid zones of mortal intent.
Because if a lass cannot take the time to smell the foul odorous roses,
Then what’s the point of having a nose? Let it sit idle? Aware that it will never
Experience the width and breadth of our violent, putrid, but merry land?
I owe a great many people a great deal of things,
Which is maybe why I thought “Ha! Why ease through life?”
And left that debt behind like my ancestors before me. Saying “You tall.”
At skyscrapers and other freakshows. At Draculas with writing instruments for arms.
If I could have found and licked the worlds dirtiest floor: I’d have.
After a stint in a not-so-major janitorial position, I found a bar on a lonely road.
It said, in a sign made of charcoal, broken spanish and oak: La Homa.
My first job. I met people like Carol in a literal trash bucket.
And girls like Nev at a sad, sad bar wedding. But I loved my bosses the most.
“He never knew me.” He coldly said to me, after a few drinks. Louis was hurt.
In Louis’ father’s eyes, Louis is Ana. But Louis is Louis. Which is why they don’t talk.
In Diana, Louis found a partner to do antics both business and bedroom,
In Louis, Diana found someone willing to love her in the suburbs of Massachusetts .
Fellow travellers wandering to be beyond where a father can tuck. He didn’t.
For the two of them, I’da hoveled wherever I had to,
But I was up tech’s ass. And I did have much to offer them no matter how much I loved them.
I owed them more than the ten I seemed to owe back home. But I was a traveller.
So many places, with such awful clothes, a la Bam Margera.
In states of flux, or granite. Happiness or sadness. Growth, or despair.
A journey that stretched from California to the New York island and back.
Because I wasn’t on my way to Kansas, I was on my way home.