getting lost

living two different routines is a strange thing. 

after getting back to iowa, and spending time with people after a month back in louisville, i realize how easily i slip from one established situation right into another.

different parts of my person are stressed between the two, keeping me the same person, but it feels different.

on the ride back from des moines my friends and i took a wrong turn and we ended up on a deserted road with white fields of snow stretching to the few lights that dotted the horizon.

at first i didn't really realize it; it was a weird situation we had gotten ourselves into and could, for the most part, get ourselves out.

then i checked myself and took note of where i was. 

i was in the middle of corn fields, in a state rooted strongly in a culture i have never been a part of. 

i was on a gravel road seen rarely by even snow plows in an old chevy that could easily be overtaken by the snow.

i had no idea how to even give someone instructions on how to find us if we had gotten stuck. 

i was in the middle of nowhere.

then i came down and shared the moment with the people i was with.

we turned around and made it back into ames, to somewhere, yet we were still in the middle of nowhere. 

my room is exactly how i left it.

i had no bags to unpack, since they got lost by the airlines, so i went right to all the same things i was doing before i left.

weird, huh?

#3

home life, 

living at home, 

is exactly the same as it has always been.

My dad 

still fixes up the house every weekend.

he still

finds ways to slip me 20s and cover the small things.

he

tries so hard to let me live like some kind of upper-class kid

without me realizing it.

"no dad, i'll ride the bus i don't want to drive."

"i like goodwill dad."

 see, he grew up poor

with only a mother too afraid to let anyone see

she was afraid.

he still

tries so hard to make everyone happy that he to often

forgets about himself

which in turn makes me

pretty damn sad.

I wish he could realize how good of a parent he is,

and that no matter how hard he tries,

he can't make up for the 42 years

his dad has been gone.

My mother

still mirrors my grandmother with every passing day.

she is

always on her feet, doing something for someone.

and if you're sitting nearby, 

she'll bring you a bowl of pretzels without you asking.

she's always

thinking about anything related to her children

and

as much as i want her to be wrong,

she's usually right about lots of things.

she's 

fucking good at her job,

to raise money for a small college.

i saw her speak to some people she works with and 

she can talk to anybody.

she'd probably bring saddam hussein a bowl of pretzels 

if he was sitting in the next room.

my sister 

is different from me,

which makes giving her life advice,

which i'm supposed to give her,

hard.

she's still struggling

with her health,

with being overweight,

with making friends,

with picking which high school to attend.

see, i don't think she even knows

what kind of people she wants as friends,

and i sure as hell don't know.

my mom might.

her friends don't really call

and she plays it off as though 

when i get back in town, we'll hang out

but we never really did.

and she goes through hobbies

to keep herself out of boredom.

i see my father and mother struggling 

with my sister on so many fronts.

to keep her self esteem up.

to distract her mind

from pain.

i want to help so bad,

but anything i offer is only temporary 

because things will change

and i will leave.

and i can't say when i will be back 

for sure.

 

my mom leaned over to me in church yesterday

and said she was glad i was able to be home.

that's when it struck me that i was somewhere,

but i don't know if i would call it home.

#2

tonight i got caught up in

a movie!

a decent one, too. (!)

The guy, he was counting cards to

pay for college.

At one point i got so

involved

i had to pull myself back and

examine my own situation

as a kind of

reality check.

At first i was relieved to realize

nobody is going to beat me up over playing

a friendly game of blackjack.

but

then i realized i still have to pay 

for college.

this made the movie somewhat less

entertaining

and a little more

disheartening. 

maybe i should start counting cards. 

#1

Here’s our man

in the basement of a building

constructed circa late 60’s,

his home, Looavull.

Looavull, Kentucky

no scratch that. 

in a basement-esque room in Iowa.

Ames, Iowa.

he’s playing nostalgia,

an air guitar.

his hair plays trampoline over his nose,

over his eyes.

his torso plays rocking chair

his feet play hot invisible coals under his feet.

and

his ears play late-teen alt pop punk

constructed circa mid 90’s. 

and reconstructed here,

and now. 

and now,

and every moment of these lines, 

until they end.

oblivious to him,

we exist. 

he will die first and we will die

never.

we watch him play,

whatever.

he will always be doing whatever,

but he will not always,

has not always

played.
we’ve been watching this man for a-

while 

and

I will recall

for you

(lazy bum)

our man, he doesn’t play

often.

his bedroom rock ecstasy

is intermittent,

interrupted by

Work

and 

Necessity. 

and

Contemplation. 

not that work can’t be fun,

and contemplation can’t be enlightening,

but

these are by no means adequate forms of

playing. 

only adequate means for

existing. 

(you have to make up your own

goddam mind if that’s good or bad. you

have to do some of the work)

as he abruptly skips 

two of the boring minutes and ends the effing song,

they cry,

we cry,

Encore!

Encore!

Encore!

***

No, scratch that, our man is in McDonald’s.

there’s a fucking billion of those.

pick one, wherever,

(I’m picking Utah)

and put him on a table,

jumping and

kicking trays and

meat patties 

all over McD’s playing his axe

while

mothers and fathers of Utah

(or wherever)

shield their young 

impressionable

children from the sheer atrocity of

play

elevated

(literally)

to such a level. 

 #this kind of thing should be limited to the confines of your room! child!#

(he’s fourteen, 

maybe,

here,

and now

but only for a few more lines)

can this level of fun be had

on the sticky tiled floor?

the answer is a definitive

maybe

play can only be achieved when one gathers

the jealous looks of those not able 

to have fun. 

***

Now he’s in california somewhere,

now Maine,

or wherever.

point being,

home is a four letter word.

and he still won’t know where 

to send his mail next year.