I flatlined in the flatlands.

© Matthew Harlovic

Auntie Em is calling….

I was just getting to love my Emerald City
The shiny feel of it, its sweetly diverse demi-monde.
Its shimmering green beauty and tranquil sense of safety.
The heels of my ruby red slippers were well & truly dug in.
But no, the state fair balloon stands before me ******* & ready to go.
A grand exclamation mark in my way if ever there was one.
And Toto for once has gone mute, no chance of a last minute hold up.

"Dorothy, Dorothy, where are you?"

I guess it must have been too fantastical a dream to be true.
A time for goodbyes.
I’m embracing the Lion telling him to always be proud of himself & not to walk unafraid.
The Tin Man’s gentle open heartedness I compliment him on as we both shed tears.
The Scarecrow I kiss and thank for his loyalty & grace under fiery pressure.
With a heavy heart, I climb that first tentative step on the block.  

"We’re sick with worry over you"

I could be angry but the wise words of the mystic ring loudly in my year.
I do need to go back – My Auntie Em is really calling me.
Calling me back to the grey flatlands of home.
Back to the numbness of small town heteronormativity.
Where Twisters rarely every came by to sweep you away and save you.
I could only keep singing ‘Over The Rainbow’ in vain hope.

"Find yourself a place where you won't get into any trouble!

Unlike Dorothy Gale, this Dorothy left Kansas voluntarily
The long yellow brick road finally took me under the rainbow and on to my Emerald City
I no longer pined for home but knew all along that it would call me back one day.
And so here I am, drifting higher & higher away from my adopted home.
Perhaps I need to build a revolving door when I get there to pass through both worlds easily
Or perhaps bring something of the rainbow back to illuminate the grey-lands.
Or perhaps – in reality -  some reconciliation between these worlds is in order.
Perhaps.
It’s time to slip on the ruby red slippers and prepare the way for Kansas.
Yes, this Dorothy has surrendered but
I always had the power to be me, my dear.
I just had to learn it for myself.

August –September 2018

they called it a lake home because there were
no knobs only latches
with padlocks for winter.

it was spring when I left.

the water was in the arroyo
when colorado raised her snowy head
above the hills and brush of northern new mexico.

and you wept
with tears strange to me as yellow flowers
in the canyons and flatlands, laughing for water.


the truck broke down just south of Los Lunas
the smoke and steam drawn off by a fierce wind
that drove the tumbleweeds to

new lowlands. eager with seeds.

Say if all events:
'Past, present, future'
All possible occurrence
Chosen and averted
Are already on the 'map'
Of spacetime
(Interpreted from Relativity, Einstein)

Like infinite numbers of
Vacation spots

and
Time is merely
Our conscious measurement
Of indivisible increments
Of the ever-present
(St. Augustine)

A record of travelling

And if our fourth dimension of time
Is our one dimensional consciousness
Where we can only travel from
Event to event
Dot to dot
In seemingly constant speed
And one direction

As if a railway passenger

In one of the higher dimensions of time and consciousness
Though unfathomable and would seem omnipresent and eternal yet timeless
To us dots in a three dimensional flatlands

As the wayward of them
Had stumbled or spilled
Into our dreams

We would finally be able to
Run wild and free
Greet our past and future
Embrace familiar friends and strangers
In the wildlands
Of a higher dream

And we would not be
Arriving at a dimension of
Love and intuition

But we would inherently
Be beings of love
And intuition

Though we only seldomly
Physically feel them
And never see them

They're part of us
Only visible
Only fathomable
In higher dimension
Of
Spacetime

Vulnerability is a funny thing. Everyday people urge us to be authentic- with ourselves, our peers, our passions. Yet when we cut ourselves open for the world to see, they run from us as if we are violent rip currents waiting to take them under. When in reality we are nothing but individual tide pools sometimes puddled into something so much bigger than what others want to openly accept.

But I refuse to not live a life of authenticity. So many souls become comfortable with safety, causing them to become deeply implanted in solely just the soil in which they have resided their entire time of growing. Genuine love for something other than yourself has become nothing but a fossil of a feeling. Streams of emotions have dissipated and turned into desert lands.

As for me, I took the time to disappear within myself. I discovered my flatlands and made them curved. Those rip currents everyone always runs from are big, but so am I. A vulnerable soul may be looked at as someone made up of only dainty fallen petals, but the truth is they're looking past someone with roots dug deeper than sunken teeth into bitten skin.

What's authentic to those who shelter themselves like boarded windows in the midst of a storm might as well be forgery to me. I urge you to not be afraid to put your innermost self into another pair of shaky hands. To not hesitate to whisper your deepest ridden thoughts into caverns of a mind that's not your own. To not second guess putting you're ragged edged heart into someone else's hollow chest.

Vulnerability and authenticity meet at an intersection that you must come to terms with stopping at. I hope to see you there.

Tucked away in our subconsciousness is an idyllic vision. We see ourselves on a long trip that spans the continent. We are travelling by train. Out the windows, we drink in the passing scene of cars on nearby highways, of children waving on a crossing, of cattle grazing on a distant hillside, of smoke pouring from a power plant, of row upon row of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, of mountains and rolling hillsides, of city skylines and village halls.
But the uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day at a certain hour, we will pull into the station. Bands will be playing and flags waving. Once we reach there, so many wonderful dreams will come true and the pieces of our lives will be fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. How restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes loitering, waiting, waiting, waiting for the station.
"When we reach the station, that will be it", we cry. "When I'm 18", "When I buy a new 450SL Mercedes Benz", "When I put my last kid through collage", "When I have paid off the mortgage", "When I get a promotion", "When I reach the age of the retirement, I shall live happily ever after."
Sooner or later, we must realize that there is no station, no one place to arrive at once and for all. The true joy of life is the trip. The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances us.
"Relish the moment" is a good motto, especially when coupled withe the Psalm 118:24:"This is the day which the Lord hath made, we will rejoice and be glad in it." It isn't the burdens of today that drive men mad. It is the regrets over yesterday and the fear of tommorrow. Reget and fear are twin thieves who rob us of today.
So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. Instead, climb more mountains, eat more icecreams, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more and cry less. Life must be lived as we go along. Then the station will come soon enough.

i used to be, what you might call husband material, and i stress that i used to be; i can count the number of girlfriends i had with one hand, no relationship lasting long enough to celebrate anniversaries.

i moved up in life, i'm still drinking
a £10.80 bottle of scot club whiskey,
but the mixer has been upgraded from
a £0.17 bottle of coca cola to a £0.55
bottle... and noticeable differences,
waking up with a hangover i used to
drink up the leftover mixer in the afternoon
(obviously the mix to get rid of insomnia
is really effective - naproxen is a more
effective version of paracetamol;
and in relation to the poem
*rock bottom england, everyone's
abusing antibiotics these days,
people are making viruses cleverer,
all this darwinism against theology
has made us teach darwinism to viruses,
one cough, one sneeze and you're dead),
so yeah, conjunction usage like a comedian
on a stage, you never know what you're
going to say next, a bit like an r.e.m.
gimmick salute to nirvana, about
how many times you can say yeah in a song
(man on the moon, smells like teen spirit,
indeed i'm in that age bracket if you're asking,
i know more about steve tyler than swift tailor),
anyway... what was i saying?
oh yeah, the £0.17 bottle of coca cola is
over-fizzy, they jazzed things up with excess gas,
too much carbon dioxide,
it's too acidic,
i know because yesterday i bought
a bottle of pepsi, drank it today
and i didn't get heartburn... well, serves you
right for buying the cheap **** i thought,
so i upgraded to the £0.55 bottle
and guess what... no excess fizz!
but that's how it goes, the best albums
to listen to when walking in english suburbia
are burial's untrue album,
very experimental dub-step that's not really
about dabbling in a pigeon or chicken strut,
i.e. no "drop" that's a signature of drum & bass...
and susumu yokota's grinning cat,
both albums work perfectly with the illumination
on suburban streets of essex
(oh look, urbanity - consciousness -
suburbia - subconsciousness -
the countryside - the unconscious);
so the talk in the supermarket was
a guy stacking freezer products damning it
all with, quote: 'money is the vilest of evils
of this world',
true that i said out-loud walking back to
the automated cashiers with another £1.50
bottle of amstel beer...
england was playing the Netherlands
and was winning one nil,
a bad joke about the flatlands
and how the dutch were good when
johan cruyff played, getting to the final
in 1974 losing to west germany,
and how the germans cheated playing
in unplayable circumstances with poland
in a bog rather than a pitch, the rain man,
the swift polish players were no match
on a dry pitch, with the german heavy cavalry;
so then on the walk i peer into this one house,
a massive blue aquarium in it,
Poseidon's wallet... and i thought...
was i rich enough to own a house,
or if i were to be like a moralising Confucius,
teacher of humanity, i'd replace all
modern fireplaces that televisions are,
and install aquariums in every household.

There are times I need the spread of a meadow, green and flat
Or maybe a field with perfect rows of corn as I drive quickly by
I want to see the distance but not so much that I cannot be a part
Because where do people exist except in common occurrence?

Hands across the void unable to touch each other
Giant clocks with hands that move though we cannot see
Hands reaching to heaven but all we can feel is the rain
The sun and moon shine upon us but time passes not so gently

Between mountaintops is there a promise for the future?
What we see and gaze upon is only a moment to contemplate
Though some live in God’s country it is not the pleasure of most
To walk upon burning sands is the promise that we will live together

It is the truth that you must see in order to know truth itself
And so we must see his presence in the things we cannot touch
Yet what we feel is the warmth of day and the chill of the night air
And the sense of self that brings us together on common ground

Warm evenings bring a slow haze of conversation.
The moon, rolling on the waves,
has pulled the tide right back to the horizon
Exposing wet flatlands of sand and a rocky skeleton
That crawls in the darkness, like figures on the beach below.
Rosé wine and boredom
Keeps me checking my phone for you to tell me you've arrived.

i.
In your arms, I felt like a child
Not a woman.

Listened to warmth, the
Tin raindrops outside and this

Bright light. Accepted
it and laid on you. Worn

Like the Midwest flatlands,
many arid miles longing
terribly

To comprehend, I can’t.
A glimpse of the shadows

Of the mind in the day of you:
Stripped and tender,

Raw. I bury my head
Like a child.


----------------------------------------(alternate version)


ii.
Like a woman – like a child
In your arms – (is) – raw
I bury my head. I feel like child.
Listened to the warmth of
Tin raindrops outside and this – stripped and tender
Worn, the mind in the day of you
Bright light like the many arid miles
Like the Midwest flatlands, longing terribly
To comprehend. Accept it
and laid on you.

It's a quiet sacred place,
deep in the oak hammocks,
way beyond the pine flatlands
& cabbage palms.
There I commune
with the crows
and the crickets.
And at night,
a bullfrog symphony plays.
The mosquitoes,
*****,
and armadillos
come out to play.
It remains sacred,
but is not nearly as quiet.

My sunbaked hands, that are worn in places, handle the grapefruit moon. Juiceless craters embellish the surface that is smooth to the touch, but ¾ it’s natural size, as it has been prematurely picked from the tree above. Flatlands an Amazonian green, resembling the most courageous leaves that journey to find the purest sunlight, with polka-dot peaks that resemble the tint of dewy summer grass in the shade. There is a hole where once stood a pylon that connected the moon to the universe it knew. The scar’s mark forms a pupil and in it’s orbit I see nothing but the incomparable eye of a chameleon. While it twitches and inspects the world, tiny white rovers scuttle across the glossy hide of their new-found planet and ******* bugs invade. Bugs! I drop the moon, as it is infested, and recoil as it hits the ***** concrete floor of what is known and rolls into what is expanding.

I am made of mountains
which do not merit their trek,
slumps pregnant with swamps
bubbling ‘round souring slop,
flatlands so parched they cough
as the pustules burst.

I am petals so withered
they perpetually sulk,
shunning the warmth
so to sigh in the soil.

I am blackened fruits
weighing down weary trees.  

The flies do not flock to me.

The summer sun rose at 3 am. By then we had already hightailed out of Stockholm, en route south. The purple horizon slowly lifted the veil of darkness and the motion of the van returned to its former realm of concrete movement as we rocked along the long continental avenue. The sun gleamed through open windows onto my arms and legs, making the hairs on my neck stand at attention and awe of white light fissioning into a nebula of vivid color in motion, occupying the entirety of my vision. It was as if, for a brief moment, I had forgotten past failures and obstacles. Was it because of some arbitrary sense of perseverance and skill, or was it a mere karmic turn? Who could tell(?) The radio crackles and fades just before I turn it off. Heller leans forward to tamper with the switches on the radio to find a station. I slapped his hand in spite and I don’t know why it did it. Heller laughs it off and continued to make fun of South-state Americans and juggalos.
- “‘The juggalos made me the ******* I am today,’ ya, that’s pretty evident, you fat drugged up loser. You should should go **** your sister’s purdy mouth,” Mackay laughs wholeheartedly. Andrew leans forward and puts a hand on my shoulder.
- “Hey, man. Are you alright? You look a tad pale.” Andrew shifts his facade to slight sarcasm, like he always would to veil his genuine care.
- “Yeah, I’m fine. Haven’t really eaten anything, and the coffee is wearing off.”
- “Do you wanna put something on the tape-deck? Let’s pick one you’re familiar with, so that you can sing along to keep your head up. These slobs won’t be helping you, trust me. They’ll be sleeping in good conscience in a few minutes.”
- “Yeah, cat, that’s not such a bad idea. Put on some Jason Molina. It’s not exactly upbeat, but I know every ****** depressed word.”
I hum and sing along with Emilio, Devin and Mackay as the rest slept away the sorrows of folly and deprivation. We had finally made our way out of Sweden, crossing the immense Oresund Bridge, towering over us with cables running up and down, thicker than our waists. The fog lay over Copenhagen Bay, as the sun peeks over it like Kilroy writing his mark on the horizon wall. 8 kilometers across, connecting the fragmented Scandinavian continent, suspended 60 meters above the malicious Skagen Sea, writhing, twisting and smashing away in the stiff morning wind. Walk along the suspension on a wire, not caring either way if you fall or remain in your shoes. We had already leapt away from the strange comfort of our apartments, shrouded in exhaust, hardship and simplicity of mind, to get a feel of the real world, a world that robs you at knife point, stabs you and leaves you to bleed away in beautiful chrysalis alleys, with the stars glinting away in your vidi, not able to care one bit. Leaving the pots and pans ***** in the sink at home, leaving late night parties, static beds, self consumption, bitterness and white knuckles, we found ourselves on a frontier. A lackluster frontier by ancient standards, but complacency being the dominant dogma of modern day life, a frontier nonetheless. We are the riders of high waves, and rogues on the dusty trails, for thousands of miles, until time suspends itself, and we lose grip. We may not have revolvers or boats, but our van is our weapon. And we are going to use it. The bridge descends into the flatlands of Denmark, where the highest point is a lump of lawn and the people are friendly and clever. A few friends of ours had told us tour stories from bands that were, about a concert being held in a glass octagon cube in the middle of a desolate plain, and the place was packed with young sophistos and the remaining cultural aristocracy of Denmark. Too bad we ain’t stoppin’.
The carnival in my head pushes into high gear with song and magic marker signs, spinning around in circles through streets filled with people screaming at the top of their lungs. I listen to the mechanism churning away, greased by coffee, in the scorching noon Apollonian torture.

we think of them as lazy
slow and peaceful
places of fishing and summer play
but a river...

(one)
the rivers edge
intoxicated by the night air
drunk with the silken touch of her
he walked slow through the old town streets
down to the rivers edge
thought to sit for a space at the calming sounds of
the rivers quiet song
he shut his eyes and pictured her face
thought about each and every soft thing bout her
and slipped into a sleep

the words were printed with legible care
you could sense the measured time taken
perfect each etched line on the paper
like they themselves were children
to be nurtured
and the phrases were trimmed
and crafted
cant you see that this is
the man you were born to be
wordsmith

he stirred in his sleep
deep in the night
the small boat he had fallen asleep on
now carried him silent and swift
miles down the wide old river
from her rich silent forests of the north
through her flatlands of crops
down to the mud of the delta

he dreams of her
telling him a story
with her voice soft and full of love
a story of a man on a boat drifting
down a long river
and of all the wonders that sleeping
man could not see
her story came to its end
as he slowly woke from his slumbers
on a calm sea
with no shore to the eyes furthest see

(two)
the morning light
is twisted up in the eye
the morning air is thick as thieves
as it tries to rob your strength
stagger down long the rivers edge
hear them coming on the dirt road
try and hide your fearful face
but its daylights dark delight
to leave you exposed for all to see

you wade into the rivers cold waters
feel it trying to pull your feet from under you
feel it tryin to pull you down to a hard place
from whence you shall find no return
fight to swim in the stained waters
tastes of metal
tastes like death
but you must flee this place
flee this open grave with your name carved

on the rivers far bank
perceive the tinge of a fast car
escape from this dark place of daylight
all you must do is make it to the shore
just a few feet more
till salvation
you hear them behind almost upon you
come to drag you back
to that soul killing prison
here in the midday sun things growin dim
vision growing faint
as you slip into the darkness beyond this world
they did not claim you
the river did

I wanna move out to La. Not just to be a celebrity, or superstar. I wanna move out to LA cause that's where dreams come true. Right? Ohio is all dull and grey. And during the summer's it's just less grey. You see the flatlands of Ohio, and they don't inspire you. They make you feel even flatter on the inside. Less motivated. Our winter's are hard, are weather is weird, and all our brains are full of bacon and corn.
We worship football, and don't get me started about those buckeyes. That's all our states about…
But california has palm trees and stars and movies. They have my love.
For in California I felt it all, the world in my little hand. The world in my hand, I was an oyster, and california was my pearl. I was loved, and felt loved, and felt as if the world was mine. But Ohio is damp, and dark, and *****. After spring it's just less snowy. It's icky and spiritless. I'm broken and sad easily split open by the weather.

But I was touched by gold. I was given a chance to see mountains. And I wanted mountains, and that California state breeze. That breeze of a millions others who dream… and I am no different.

of
velvet crow.

     what moving here
might mean.

that waking
beside you
is old; and land.  that the land
beside you

is asleep.  beside it

a creature
indigenous
to another.

that something
in me
is rich.  not to place

in drawers
used

tape.  that if a train

is crowded, it is crowded

with libertine

balloons.
 
the word chthonic.

     flatlands, or lowered

beds, when we get there

the top bunk
is yours.

Body:
      Pinups and post adolescent boys screaming turbulence
strung out in my room, days for ever growing more jaded
what ever that means, surely these things, will rip my heart out
get back to my head, share anything, better make my head feel still

     Reading in  the blue light that is a broken hearted city passing by
  without it all , skylines for side views, heading south, away from it
when will it all mean surely nothing, will it rip my head out
get back to my bed, share anything, better make  my bed feel here


     Thankful for all the things i get wrong that i still feel in the day
  you out there, somewhere doing good , filling the world with so much hope
where age means nothing, and you can marry me, and stay the same- beautiful
money where it does not mean a thing, money make the world turn , anything

    
      Closure seeking itself in the open flatlands of an opaque remembering scheme
  this is him in his prime, waiting for me with the open hands of a martyr stinging
when will  you separate the screams from the hit on key singing of angels of sorts
foxes in the court room dancing during the sweeping, over papers left behind foxes

We rounded the corner,
the Sandia Mountains glimmering like rust-colored prophets
from the passenger seat.
Far from The Flatlands,
I traced the curves
of Mother Earth with my fingers.
I imagined the way her gentle hands
could carve existence on a whim.

I scratched out the names but let me tell you about them

He sits in the sun talks of life
as a passion, he’s tried to **** himself twice
once in a car, once with pills and cheap *****
now he jumps off tall things like cliffs and
antennas and people’s shallowness but he uses a parachute
which seems necessary
he jumps and the blood forgetting it is blood
nothing matters
he tells me it’s the closest humans will ever get to
flying.

The next
He sits in the shades of his four walls.
He can drink a bottle of gin and still drive
To his ex-girlfriend’s house and break his teeth
against the window. He takes pictures of alley ways
and flatlands which make up all the tiny pieces of
America. He screams at night, plays golf and tells me
simple things that make more sense than theology and philosophy,
things like Be Cool and Life Takes Time. Billboard truths.

She presses her lips against a strong sky,
a thing she hopes to believe in. she meditates daily and swears
she’s seen her soul make breakfast and burn the toast.
She floats so well people call her a Queen. If I could be level
headed she’d be my wife. She’s been hiding her perfection
and she knows it, it might be why nervous breakdowns are part
of her diet. She has made meaning out of thin air, I’ve seen it done.

Houses keep falling down
flatlands of dirt and crumbling dust
the ground stained red with avaricious blood
soaked up by tree roots
plaguing our minds
tendrils creeping like veins
out our fingers and toes
sinking into the earth
pricking like knives through our skin

Kids set fire to southern churches
and god turned a blind eye
to this spectacle
when he sent flames to ravage 
the flatlands. 
the dirge of a dying politician's
diseased voice strains 
through the blown out
crackling speakers in my 
car that was shaking apart 
as we drove further West 
towards the smoke and sirens,
the highway coddling it's median,
black with charred grass.
Sun shone through a cracked window, 
while outside, the shimmering 
wheatfields and acres of sunflowers
were pushing us farther 
into unknown territories,
the many fenceposts passing like hours, 
we want them to go quickly...
something better must be hiding
beyond that next plateau.
We clung religiously
to our notebooks 
and copies of "Being and Nothingness ",
a pen in one hand,
a lighter in the other, 
discussing ways to twist the words of others
into our own truths.
The butane flames dance, 
igniting the scorched images
of smoldering plains and wooden beams, 
angels crucified with the
damning politics of hope.

The older I get the more room I need;
if not where sand spins itself into a knot,
while the thunderclaps wait their turn
to pay the debt the drought left behind,
then where I am able to think in solitude,
without suggestion or dissent; instead
with my own life and past speaking freely,
making my mistakes and living with them

I don’t always have time to find an empty road;
to see both sides of the storm, the top and the
bottom, like a curtain in a sparse auditorium,
where the rock sculptures await another brush;
the curse of being the muse of an imperfect artist
with a perfect vision of us and all our secrets; I
don’t always have time but I will, the only question
is when, only when

It seems very few people want that; instead
they crowd like thorns on a cactus, but they do
not protect one another, only drawing blood;
it’s the way they live, as if life is not about
natural causes; there has to be a reason that
lives on the streets, walking among them; but
I can’t live like that; I want to die slowly, not
like a creek as it dries but instead like the wash
it leaves behind, remembered for the love it
held within its banks though he left no names
for you to call upon

I saw you once a thousand nights straight;
I remember each one like the moon I saw
through my windshield; it was staring at me,
telling me to trust in myself and not to worry
that I took my eye off the road for a moment;
the road that had an exit I almost missed if
not for the way you looked at me; I knew it
right away and the way you sat next to me
in my mind wide open; you became the space
within; the west flatlands, where I traveled
alone, but you let me go my way because
where I went was where you wanted to go
and I didn’t even have to think about it

Asphalt as dark as ****,
blacktop baking in the sun.
Eighteen wheelers rolling out,
big rigs headed on long runs.

Long stretches of highway,
from coast to coast they reach. 
Across flatlands and over hills,
from mountains to the beach.

Any direction you choose to go,
will lead you to somewhere.
Maybe not the way you planned,
but eventually you'll get there.

flatlands grey and dull cept in nighttime luster
blank screens filled with hollow movement and little else
a transitory space we share with glances and lists
a layer of emulsion that cracks and dissolves, destabilizes
as the light changes
the beauty of space
beauty of absence
the concrete glistens under the artificial stare

Midsummer chill is a call-back.
Struck cold, the bodies congregate in the breeze,
not quite believing the sting of frost
unaccustomed to the weight of clothes, they wait.

when I saw you I was cold
I touched my absent calluses
your beard was rough and my skin brushed red

The trek up the cliff smelled of ash -
the blacked trunks paved the way through the clay
and a moments silence sang of little deaths,
little burnt wings and tails.

you bought a litre of water and gave it to me
but after two swallows I was freezing
you finished the whole thing

In the changeling hour, the domestic rabbit waits
for the world to stop moving, nystagmic eyes wide.
Hearing into the next world, it wonders where
the wailing winds come from, and where they'll go next.

we had met in winter and, frozen in place
didn't see the thaw until it was too late
your eyes were still ice, beckoning

The peak was idyllic green and brook blue.
Winds and sea forgotten they jumped into the pool
shaking the mud away and summoning the summer storms
they prayed for a quick forgiving end.

in a state of half dreaming little death
5.05 AM woke us and clothed us
bugs waved from the shower floors as they drowned

The flatlands had called the unknowing away from sin
only some were left behind in beds of expectation,
of sweat and love
of breath and lust

a taxi found you fast
but your arms found me faster
I was warm the whole way back

I didn't know how to do right by you.
As you dug the answer beneath every one of my sins, virtues, and charms.

I am now standing amidst dusty dirt,
at this quarry of knowledge, as the vessel I had been made that which had then been unmade to self-standing me.

Unlike any other so close, even after a massacre of my being, I will teach you there's love in everything you know to hate,
and to forgive all you've learned to regret.
Slowly building testiment of integrity
in deadlands that could have once housed a castle.