Try as I might, I'll ever fail
to purge certain people
from my heart

My past,
a spectre that seethes a tsumani's arc
o'er my wet, shiverred shoulders,
across the shoreline of my back

The imp-eyed, nimble-fingered, woman from the hills
Said she was queen of the faeries
predicted the end of the world (there was Mayan lineage to her blood)
gave me green beads and a crystal
sold me a sweet peice for ten dollars
and packed its bowl with her very own stash
We smoked
In a golden Mushroom haze, She told me I had roots.
I have to believe her.