Untitled #1

The Truck whizzed by me
cuttin' me off,
nearly killed me!

for a flashed second
(in my mind)
I grabbed the back
- a real Christian Slater meets Stretch Arm Strong move!-
to be whisked down the street,
dragged without blood (because there's never blood in my dreams,
or a necessity for grotesque violence or obscene sexuality)

Here there's just me,
the Truck
and John, George and Paul,
singin' sunbeams into my brain
creating
a chill and tingle effect in my cheeks
a tension in my torso, thighs, testicals
and Lake Eerie in my eyes
- A sensation not dissimilar to orgasm or what I imagine it's like to be Christian Slater.

So I ran home,
in a hurry,
before sunset
or miscarriage

"there are some--
four malities"

you didn't say it, you didn't have to.
- you couldn't,
you had misplaced your voice
(and any hope for mine in the future)
and some kind person found it
floating
outside their house in the country
shaking like a helpless,
tired kitten
hiding in a wheel-well
and you wanted me to go get it.

"But can't you see I'm pregnant?!" I begged.
"I'm sorry", you would have said
and I accepted the apology
as a necessary compromise of what it means to be poor,
but unwilling to use discretion,

even tempt fate;

to go looking

the Prodigal Son

" ... there's an innocence to this place, that's why there's no graffiti on the retaining wall, why every change you perceive as positive... "

"It's also why I hate it."

" ... and why it feels like home."