Sunday, July 12, 2009


Today finds me tired of paralyzing myself with thought.

I am tired of describing the weather.

So a mist blows through the open gate

of a derelict Barn in Iowa

like the sigh of a forgotten god.

Fuck you.

I want to be at the Barn,

far away from people who say things about things.

If the talent of pointing out what things resemble

were an animal

it would be a chihuahua.

And I would pick it up and punt it over my barn.

I would turn it into a dot on the horizon.

And then I would sit in the hay loft and open my skylight.

So barns don't have skylights

Fuck you.

I made a skylight with broke-backed labor

of your poetry friends who use words like, "problematize."

And I am going to sit under my sky light

and feel the mist.

and the mist won't be anything but mist.

it will be wet and cool.

And I will be alive and the hay will smell like mold.

It's too bad god has been forgotten

and that he's done breathing

and that we don't capitalize his name anymore

that's kind of sad

but not as sad

as an empty barn.

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