B.K. Clandestiny

Last week I came back from my home, it smelt of pizza crust and dirt. I met people that I had never seen before, but it felt like I had finally arrived at the family reunion that I'd been missing for always. Standing at the shore I was swallowed by the salty waves - wanting to drown in my own paradise amidst the wind-whipped trees and mottled buildings that once stood at the beaches as proud hotels before hurricanes left them as ransacked refuges for drunkards and horny teenagers. The morning rose on Sunday as I walked through the streets alone without a sense of direction; never having been so lost, never having felt so right about where I was supposed to be. I'll go back there someday, I'll know my family and claim that sense of belonging that I've only had a taste of - much like a deer that has it's first savoring of a salt lick; a guilty pleasure that satisfies a carnal longing while at the same time putting it right in the line of fire. I think of that place everytime I look at the sand now. I remember the happiness of the people and the life of not having material pleasures everytime I see the faces of the homeless. I forget what needs to be changed because life there was simple but still in longing; an existence of self-perpetuated longevity that has worked for decades. I recall the smoke of a cigar from a man who sold old pocket watches in the street, cascading up his face in a fluid sort of ephemeral beauty; dissapating into the air like a stone sinking into the ocean. I remember the cotton soft sky. I will go back and find a resting place for my ashes.