Once I spoke to you about the sacred art of ball-throwing. Now,
I bury every depressing thought
in the underside of your brain
and close the coffin
of your spine
like a book.
I drove west through the red dirt oceans
for three days just to get here.
I drank from a pothole:
I failed to purchase a pot (at Wal-Mart)
so the hole held some things
holes are not meant to hold.
Some things in the water
made it bad for drinking:
Rogue amoebas. Tar. Bird shit.
Some things without etymological roots.
Come down on routes not
made from words - like my pain - not from words,
not from you either, but drilled in you
while I drill, as the New York Times tells me
I should drill, for self-expansion, for my own
For my own damnable happiness:
If I can't find sustenance in you
or your body
then I'm just not digging deep enough.
There are some things in the water.
Dead raccoons. Hairs from the bellies
of dead possums.