home has yet to manifest in consciousness,
except for memories which cling,
along the walls
of black holes in junk closets.
filth and trash built a solid wall against supra-being
until routine purge
scrapes my interior, that
place where all of the pressure against my spine sets.
excavation is visceral,
and i transition to new realms.
i believe it is my rising sign in scorpio
that fixates in making origin;
responds to history lost in
shadowed euskara rivers
and the dark, hard
andean leather of
rancheros del gobierno
my abuelo refused to skin
off his back to warm
an american family.
thus, crossing veins in
beating and birthing organs -
cut into topography
of libra sun,
ice over secret impulse
for warrior-god to choke-hold venus
desire, attune to taboo
masochistic healing rite
what i recall, myself,
are the edges of kitchens
a line of grime
from the refrigerator to the counter end.
places that no one thinks to touch or care
bags of cans collecting wet stale smells
with the promise to be exchanged for tomorrow’s pizza dinner
i think about eating tomorrow when i think about home.
and that is my moon sign in taurus.
home is found in space
the stars claim for me,
their momentary collision.