i wanted to connect the poetry

of the swooping birds on the interstate

and the depression of excessive masturbation

their graceful arcs that caught the winds

of speeding speeding trucks

tossing fragile bodies away in gusts

while the runts watched from the ditch

but there weren't any dead runts in the wavering distances

the brave games of birds stole my libido

or was it their directionless nature

or was it the pointlessness of their movement

which really wasn't movement at all

and i spent two weeks in the west without coming

back in the plains i keep my window open at night

and every little breeze carries her scent

or her scent

or her scent

or her scent

and i am hard again

and i am soft again

and i am still here again