Inner Radiance under Threadbare Material

So it can create a real schism being from Wales.

If you’re not from the north then you can’t claim to be a descendent of Owain Glyndwr and will have no nationality when the sleeping lord wakes and reunites the Welsh.

If you’re from the south your experience is similar to that of Jan Morris who started out as a man and ended up as a woman. And I’m not saying it’s a gender issue, rather an issue of identity.

Then if you’re not from the south there’s a sense that you are some wild Celt who has lost touched to contemporary Cymru, some relic of a Marcher Lord patrolling the hinterlands on a pony cursing in Welsh at both the diaspora and the influx of foreigners.

And lastly, if you are from the north then your sudden appearance in one of the southern towns is biblical, as if Moses himself has come down the mount.

Although all of this may have changed now since I’ve been gone. There may be new dragon lines shifting and morphing the cultural geography of the Land of My Fathers.

Which is why I am rootless.

It is refreshing to now live in a country that is still a fledgling. None of that achingly long history to leave scars or be entrenched in archaic battles to fulcrum the present with the weight of the past or free it with a catharsis for the future.

America is still a young country with loads of potential. Although right now it’s unfortunately entering its teenage years and is very difficult to live with. Especially since the religious right has managed to get a strangle hold around its neck. Its corpulent thighs are desperately trying to shove this young country back up the uterus to bring about an immaculate conception, the birth of a new state that is poisoned with religious dogma and morality.

As a practice, I’m not one to pitch my tent in anyone’s camp, I’m more of the nomadic tepee, but I have to admit to putting down some stakes in Richard Darwin’s argument that religion is a virus.

Here’s a haiku that I swapped Li Po for a jug of rice wine:

Where would I be
Without the reassuring me?

Or this I found in Hong To’s piss pot:

Make much of time:
It make you whine
Then die.

Or this I borrowed from Kaing Fo Lo Chow Mop Brow, also know as Fo Bro, gezzer to teenage angst.

The moon at my window:
Some git’s fat arse in my face.

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