I am a silent landscape.
I mean, a violent Midwestern fat-ass.
But I’m the opposite of a knife.
I’m a river that crashes into uncles,
not an LSD trip,
but a shooting-blanks trip,
an Atlantic sinking . . . I’m getting closer . . .
I miss salt,
but I punch at it again.
I watch my reflection in the spider web.
It’s made out of arm-chrome.
The people in this divinity library
won’t shut their goddamn mouths.
When I grew up—
let me start over—
when I threw up,
it was in a small town,
all jagged and stupid.
The indigenous part of me
looks at me
and thinks that the white part of me
should leap off a bridge into the sky.