Bent and Beat

things are pushing, moving us toward that strange crossworlds
songs and situations and the urgings of close advisors
photographs that have found us
photographs of ourselves that we know nothing of, that linger and fade in the albums of friends long forgotten

woodruff place, out by the fountains that haven't seen more than rain water in sixty years, round from where my father rented a a guesthouse that was once a servant's quarters after he left my mother, to where my mother's grandmother once lived across the street from a sandy brick grocery store

but really, what could wait there in yesterday and dead places where the high priestess of gentrification starbucks has exorcised the restless native ghosts and spirits of individuality?

and neither my hat nor my coats fit the city nor the weather
(maybe my habits are in the twilight area somewhere between)
but home is never a fixed fucking point
just a set of ever shifting variables in an equation that describe a fleeting and relative position
sitting on the side of a mountain
dreaming
staring eastward and trying to decide what to decide upon