I don’t know how to say things anymore,
Whether what I say is any good,
Or merely crap that has collected
At the mouth of the pipe
All those years since shutdown,
All those years ago, blasting outwards,
Yellow and greasy, fetid, stinking
Forced out by the flood.
Long tailed want gnaws hard,
old friend, grinds at the heart,
digests old dreams, defecates
desires we never had when young.
Our days of poverty are gone –
days we walked through Simi heat,
pregnant with hope, dreams packed
tightly, seeping out our eyes. We
have made it, as they say, made
