anti-homecoming

i take a ride on a hot air balloon
hoping you will see me & know
i am doing something else today without you.
sometimes "home" is a plate
of vanilla wafers & sometimes it is
a car horn being pressed over & over.
from where i am, everyone looks
like centipedes. distance is 
the greatest alchemist. goodbye 
fireflies & goodbye gun shots at night
& the race car sounds of neighbors.
i wish i could take a crow bar
& pry the "me" out of "home."
i am not from anywhere. i am a salamander
who does not remember what 
the rocks called out when i hatched. 
a yard sale sign written in headache markers.
to return would assume there is
a stagnant place where the dinosaurs 
don't even know they're supposed to die.
i believe in ghost therapy. going out
& talking to the dead versions of yourself
to learn the exact the moments they died. 
a chronology of bones & telegrams.
there are so many trees i used to worship
that are now just telephone booths
or rotting pickup trucks. do you know
the marsh used to have a prom night?
all bugs & creatures would assemble 
& dance like nothing 
would ever kill them. so no,
i am not coming. i will stay up here
where everything is a dinner plate. 
canned pea row houses. a street built
from shed pupils. what will you do 
with the whites of your eyes?