When I Want to Retreat to the Past

When I want to retreat to the past, back into the ancient of days,

I think of my pagan grandfathers who lived the family life under a bower.

To go back into naked nature feels free;

where we live in Eden and Cain actually loves his neighbor,

and peace on earth is not a mad man’s philosophy.

I wish to go to the lea and take my right of passage test I strongly desire.

My state of becoming is almost complete.

Stay on target, no negativity.

The voice of a braggart tells me all good things must come to an end—Damn, I was so close to the center that time.

Now, prep for the drop of excitement; the greenness has lost its novice 

and will now grow wrinkles.

“Wave goodbye to the nice tree”, says dad smirking.

I am off to an isolated hotel room in the Bronx.

Here I am taught to live in fear of the unknown, a.k.a. the frantics 

who knocked down a monument of freedom.

Goodbye chthonic nature.  

Hello cunning industry creeping slowly to the center of the page.  

I see you brought your friends: hatred, discomfort, perversity, lust, exhaustion, speeding tickets, rebels, & weak aesthetics.  

Come on in and usurp my home.  Once you’re done, could you 

leave false motivation and apathy with me?  

Please?  They’re both so houseless and dependant on me, 

and I could really use a parasite for my brain.

Well, I lost it,

nothing to do but wait until the weekend for an erroneously acute rebirth.