“I used to think if I died in an evil place, then my soul wouldn't be able to make it to Heaven. But now? Fuck! I mean, I don't care where it goes, as long as it ain't here.”
-The Chef, Apocalypse Now


Summer come crazy in Midwest June:
The dead white shrubs play name that tune
With laughing scorching winds.

There’s a freeway in my backyard
And it whispers tales of travelers who
Have no sense to fall by the wayside
Of the dead white land
Of the slivering dark land.

Burnt on fields of chardonnay grass
Drunk from celestial ovary;
The storms of April leave dry morass
Dusty rain bathes the ordinary.

A dead white land
A baked toothbrushed land
A forgetful

-----

Medium rare from the sun,
He worked with sweat in his navel and
Didn’t seem to mind the cool touch it gave
His pregnant belly;
Old and blind and
Gardening graves and
Wondering who would garden his.

This is a rough draft I pinned in about fifteen minutes. The first part is about the area of my hometown itself, which is set in North Texas, a virtual desert come summertime. I originally liked it but it now feels like a bit of a ripoff of Eliot to me now.

The second part is about an old roommate of mine, who tested a 1320 on the SAT but was mowing and gardening city cemetaries at 30. In general, it refers to the town's propensity to keep folks planted there and wasting their talent due to lack of opportunity, and to suck folks right back in who dare to leave.