if it began with my father it continues with my son(me), this rather stupid struggle with power, and i know he had it too, even if he considered himself a victor in the man's money sense.

still the same goddamned country made us both. and i'm still in the un-making.

continuing a conversation, driven by what's inside
(my chest was sighing for air today, like leaving)
what's inside is now out and it's going back in 
the struggle that begins continues, stopping for a cool swim when possible, and it is,
highly possible. likely, even.

  even the dead past is present, it's in the water, even in the water in our mind, the same water.
i remember my grandma rose's day-timer when she died
had a heavily underlined quote, let the dead past bury the dead. and the underlines
underscore her failure. her sister still hung from the attic rafters in her mind after sixty odd years, and we did not bury rose, but placed her in the hollow of a tree, and cast her white bone powder to the mountain sea wind.

 still in all i am confused, about what is inside, and what is out. the boundary is porous like skin or water, the message exchanged like wind.