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.
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
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.