I am from loneliness; I am from flashing lights and dim lamps,
shouts and he-man-protection-strength in front of a brown couch.
I am from snow castles built by mythical sober giants
and destroyed by real rain and poured beer cans;
from nightmares and contingents of stuffed animal sentries.
I am from sawdust. The scent of creation and reverberation.
I am from the solidity of a bookshelf that holds Sunday Comics;
I am from the memories of my father reading “Calvin and Hobbes”.
I am from fried chicken and picnics and grease and broken plates.
I am from having everything swept under the table and forgotten
until my father is thirsty again.
I am from escapism, I am from depression, I am from loneliness,
flashing lights, dim lamps and the tension in my arms from selfish love.
I am from growing up surrounded by trees and fields and imaginary friends.
I am from humming and laughing from nonsense lyrics. I am from
“Oh big buck pheasant from Kalamazoo” and catching c