I’m from the dullest place of all time.
From a limited value of entertainment,
Boredom—unending as a journey for peace of mind.
I’m from nostalgia.
The dirt behind my house,
From the feeling I get letting inferiority struggle from under me.
I’m from the electric images on the wall.
From the love of money, the article of faith my kin weaves.
From the old stories of Noah’s Ark,
And from “this is my religion” to “I don’t believe.”
I’m from my dad’s side of the family,
Born from an impulsive, ethereal love of green.
From when the lamp that was broken,
And home movies that couldn’t last.
And the pointless inquisitions of fathers,
From the dullest place in the region.