Heritage

Now there's a look in your eyes

Like black holes in the sky...   

            writing to keep words moving.

            composition conundrum.

            the energy of this place is fatal. the trickle of a cattletank-garden oasis, pecan-shells crunch and I'm wondering what it means to write raw. All the bullshit run-up, all of the energy-in-expend whirl. Nonesense becomes poetry, revised and filed down until it's sharp.

            I'm rooted here, even though I haven't lived here. The walls call out to me, crisp pages of books and wrought iron windows with the handle painted green, a cleanness I admire, fresh fruits and sizzling garlic. A sophistication that is my sensibility because it birthed me. And a rejection too of what feels failed.

            It's here that I want something more than ever, because it's here that I find myself trapped in the patterns that foreshadowed my own innovations and my own dreary trudge to nowhere. The potential scrawled in the dirt swirls up, but the sky is empty here.

            Meditate to the pomegranate trees and soothe sayings behind the mud-bricks; pray to the saints. There are moves to be made. The tangles of confused ambition need clearing, so the light can shine through. 

I want nothing because the future is big.