Friday, February 4, 2011

in response to a new york times article on "sustainable relationships"


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.
Help me.

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