When I first arrived I felt
elated. A return - well received.
needed. But then I saw the
shape of the place. weeds. rust. paint
poorly applied. Shit.
lazy animals. lazy humans. filth.
The grain from stone caked in
2 month old dog shit under a fresh
pile of green dog shit. Dirt where
grass once grew. The faint musty
smell of recessed flood waters.
The dark black sludge of the kennel
drain. mangy. rusted grates.
rusted grates that need a kick to open
(((a kick and kinetics) 'cause you have
to kick on the gate and know when to tug)
(like a woman)). And junk.
Busted cheap radio/CD players. non functional.
crammed into filthy nooks - on top
of dirty pens, stuffed behind
piles of yellowing newsprint. unkempt.
and that's the good stuff there
beneath the man mange.
tilted wheelbarrows - one deflated
wheel half sunk in mud from two
floods back. Beaten and broken wood.
Hovering,
thick hairy flying insects making
nests, threatening charge. Dogs
barking or watching lazy with
mid-day slumber. Or
midnight when it all gets calm.
the sound of traffic like the hum
of a refrigerator. mixed with
the scent of bleach and chemical orange
and swamp and sewage. All this begins the
trip. This is home. was. is. Hell,
if I could know.
