Artwork by Lincoln Hughes

August 13, 2019

Although we reside in the new refined cities of village rock, the rules we follow are of the past. No one cares to change them — they are managed by those who were born into them. They soon will pass, but only time will tell if their stories make it to Saint Laurenco Circle and back.

We found home where we’d rest.

Rest being the area we could feed our chest.

Beating it like drums; wrong because survival was the test.

The sun lingers on all but following believers.

They forget to look up; in the way a preacher’s finger.

Home was where the gut settles,

Where the heart beats mellow.

It is not the street or next door to your fellows.

Nor the brownstone you rent from uptown’s dwellers.

Make it in the mind – be happy, be kind.

Home is the space we can be us.

Money may hinder. Too confusing?

Watch who you trust.

I was born out a small village they called Dronya – miles outside the borders of Trenchport near West Africa. Between a rock and hard place, it’s hard to describe my home with a setting of space. They never told us who sprayed the lands, but Dronya was sprayed so we walked to Bhuri. I recall 13 moons until the village lost its access to fresh water. The women were coming up missing. We were often thirsty. When the barriers were forcefully ambled by animals, we walked again. Sister villages Pranantika and Nibiru was home prior to our one-way flight to the bank. Before settling closer to the Paniya, we went from Puro Village, Sambahula, Anatirikta, Vizala, Jala, Tola, Jalohondorhona, which is where we almost lost my sister. Nibiru’s land was protected because of the missionaries.

The Paniya was safe, but not every bend had clean water. At least the people who lie at the bed weren’t sprayed there. It was my playground for 11 years. Through political warfare and corrupt leadership my dad along with Chala got us out. They were social justice warriors, which made me question my purpose. Today, only the wealthy and fortunate indigenous people get near the river. We refuse to be labeled a tourist in our homeland.


Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes to encourage readers to explore the depths of their inner ocean, an unexplored self, because it's fun once you get through the emotional part... “The world around us is our vehicle, what you'll read is how I digest it.” -Budd


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