The Groves of Santa Clarita

Caustic narrows of old race days still fog the air

the abandoned, agrestic riverbeds still chirp of crickets in the fall

this is my home

the flat land, but for six earthquaked mountains with no name

the clouds circling to and fro

never cumulus, only cirrus

the old west in searing heat of modernity

it was built up so quickly, i barely matured

a mall rose up from the ground like a furious Kracken

each cove and skybridge and sheltered patio

sucking away the watershed

the blank rivers and fields

the only green would have after a rain

now the false miracles spit like camel's acid at the plastic trees and turf

this is my home

a nun stopped me when this development ensued and asked me

"you live there?"

i felt like nothing

i felt as if my valley was a handicapped friend whom i needed to push

and dress

and feed

There.

Like it was an unwashed pair of tidey-whiteys and i was a stupid toddler

there. here. anywhere else, i would not be so upset

the racetrack now a museum

the high school now a ruin

the aqueduct a straw

i love this stupid, silly, wasted arena