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

1

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.

2

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

colony:

For my own damnable happiness:

If I can't find sustenance in you

or your body

then I'm just not digging deep enough.

3

There are some things in the water.

Dead raccoons. Hairs from the bellies

of dead possums.

Help me.