Wednesday, June 9, 2010

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

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