perpetual waiting (or: Life in Croatia)

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i’m just hiding–

tucked away in my own little quiet corner of the world
as if i have the right to call it my own.
its quiet is that of the innocent damned in hiding
nervous and pensive, steady yet fiddle-footed
and it is not much of a corner, rather a boomerang
and maybe that is why i felt so compelled to return
to this land fore(my)father

that fast forward flicker film
via vile k-hole bigcity existence
of those long begotten salad days
into this quasi silent film reel dramatics
in a country plagued with perpetual waiting

waiting for what?

for an end?
for a beginning?
for answers?
for questions?

waiting, just waiting

the maelstrom of my youth

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the maelstrom of my youth betides
devastating the freshly poured concrete
i lay as a foundation, an attempt
at growing up and becoming wiser,
neglecting apathy, omitting dramatics–
unlearning the beauty in melancholy,

because all i really want
is some place to call home.
even if that home was only
empty wine bottle sculptures
garnishing our shoebox residence.

the maelstrom of my youth betides
devastating the freshly poured concrete
i lay as a boulevard out of its quarters,
as an attempt to outgrow and egress
this irrational blind apathetic love
and more into something more stable,

because all i really want
is sturdy ground out of these circles.
but then, i’ve learned
pouring a sidewalk to walk away on
is not the same as paving a life path.