Thursday, November 11, 2010

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.

1 comment:

nighthawk said...

Reminds me of a poem I wrote in 1982 called "In Cloakrooms" about those wacky and (not) wonderful Felician sisters.