I've done disappeared into every dilapidated corner & crevice of Virginia
born & bred (& taking that thoreau at walden thing about a couple square inches to heart)
easy to slip off to eastern shore's 1970s freeze frame
or wander the Blue Ridge landscape, chasing the clouds (sometimes in hydrocodone fog)
or slide back thru my homeland/wasteland of southside VA - that venn diagram of what used to be 804 but is now 434
[Did you know that if you divide 434 by 14, as if you were making a sonnet, you get 31? And that if you choose to count syllables in syllable-ass counting style, the two stanza haiku/tanka form is 31 syllables? So if you compose a 5-7-5 haiku with a 7-7 tanka, and then do 14 of them in a sonnet, it is 434 syllables? And that if you are born & bred Southside Virginia wanderlust wildbird poet who might think of doing such things in handwritten style on a notebook so that the 14 tanka stretch across pages so that the sonnet is entirely impossible to actually type in any readable by printed matter ways, it's a beautiful yet unknown poetic combination form called The 434?]
but where to go once all the local going is gone, & no longer make the blood fill your metaphysical penis?
disappear into the world? it seems impossible
I'm just a simple countryboy with skynyrd lyrics in my children's names, not meant to walk the streets of Istanbul (or Konya)
or walk through the Maghreb or Sarajevo (or Tirana)
or chase my wanderlust where no one talks the way I do
or mb the impossibility is the psychic fences put up, the same ones that cause ppl weaker than me
to think nationalist frenzied thoughts & to believe this place truly is an exception
rather than just another place where ppl do what ppl do
like everywhere else on Earth
maybe I am meant to be in Kabul
not flying under the radar
(because the literal implications of such a phrase in that place are wretched)
off the radar, not flying, idling
as unseen as possible
(& mb it is not possible to disappear there, please do not internet me with explanations of the realities of places we are not at because of things we have read about things which we do not know firsthand. this age of know-it-all dominance of knowledge is not one I believe in philosophically. if I cannot get it's dirt on my hands, I do not accept it as pure known truth. this is a dirtgod theory, that there must be microbiome & rhizome tendril connection to KNOW. sterile stainless steel white background wiki-knowledge does not infuse depth of realness.)
{but even if it is not possible to disappear to Kabul for example, there are so many corners and crevices on this giant Earth planet to do so, where even as whatever it is about me that makes me stick out I can blend in and disappear. where is my destiny? I don't know for certain, but I do not feel like I have walked through that place as of yet in my life.}
[Ahmad Zahir only lived for a prophet-like 33 years, who only spent about a decade in the 1970s actively fucking shit up with music, but cranked out over 30 albums in that brief period, feeling the muses deeply. It doesn't take long when you're truly tapped into that creative microbiome/rhizome/universal flow zone of Creation.]
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