1184. LINDISFARNE IS NOT LANDISVILLE

LINDISFARNE IS

NOT LANDISVILLE

From Runnemede to Blackwood to Berlin.

A really simple stretch of nothing, and one

where I used to live. I left all the wet towels

in the closet to dry. I ran for my life. I left

there screaming for mercy. Now the highway

runs everywhere through it. The bird and

egg hatchery where they sold live chickens

and fresh eggs before they ranged range-free.

No sort of marketing like that back then.

Fred Kretz would just look and say 'It's a

fucking chicken, boy. Nothing more.'

-

Those nasty-ass Salvatorians with their black

hip-side beads. Swinging them forward and

back like gay hips. Clutching the rugged cross

to use the beads as whips. I know. Got the

lashes to show. There was no God at the core,

I found out. Only multiplication of rules, rites

and strictures, and that stupid Catholic math :

one equals three one equals three one equals

three; Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

-

I swam those shores to get to this island:

my own alone, a place of study, a cot

where the wise man sleeps. I wish

only wish I could be there alone.

All this remonstrance gives

me the creeps.