root.origin

I take a stab at every little thing,
bringing
myself to empty holes in the ground, gopher mounds with snakes in their depths.
Fearing too much wasted time, I
play more frantically, have goddamn fun, fuck, I
WILL become a child
will retrogress to that state that escapes me now.

I do not remember what it was like to be
blissfully unaware of guilt and holes in the ground.
Unreality of these two lives I wish to be a part of trips me up
as I take stabs at every little thing, reaching hard to find my roots.

I show my people how not to sympathize and I
work myself around the blatant lies of love and fatherly affection
once gained, not remembered unless in bittersweet
summers, when the holes in the ground were covered up by my sandy feet and
avocado pits flung off of the balcony, while rice cooked in a pot indoors,
bubbling over and spilling in long strands down stainless-steel sides.

I can feel the chill breeze, even now
I can taste the soft and smooth fruit in my mouth.
My memory of sitting behind car doors with wide gaping windows is covered up by the closing of the door,
a sound final and echoing,
and the silly waving of my handkerchief as you drove off
into October night.