Discover

Please, Mommy, I want to read the gospel of the Dreamland See its sights, its sounds, its side streets. I want to touch the absurd, write on the pages, Watch the spinster sizzling with the threads Ramble in the dusky, grim gaps of Chicago, Meet a White Mulan, dance with a maraca. At times, the true story gets blurred with a coat of fog. I scavenge the mines and the canals—Who am I? I climb towers in the streets of Bombay—Who am I? Wrap missiles in the murky waters of the Mambo, Cut ivy of the ocotillo in the Newcastle lobby, Engage in espionage in the suburbs of Paris, All the while questioning, discovering, who I am, or what. It is inevitable that the fog clears, the tightly Packed truth springs open, and reality lays bare. A ha! I know who I am, but I can never forget my roots. So carrying memories in my head, and experience in my hands, I, yes I, will come back home to you.