You are expecting the plane 
snapping photographs of farm houses and zig-zag
creeks to crash into what it wants
to capture, but I’m not here
to punish anyone for excesses in wind
consumption. On the futon demanding 
mercy, to clean up my fucking body. 
An entire catastrophe of protest songs broad-
cast from the bosom of the internet, slogans 
painted on bellies. Masculine tattoos 
and omelets for dinner. Feminine tattoos 
and a real job. I could ask you what
you are doing here. Ink node on 
the celestial polyp. Dean Young rip 
off at any given moment, people. 
My cacophony of crushing cans under the heel.
My barking off the patio. My not hugging 
that woman when her car got towed. 
I say, She just buried her friend. Now what? 
didn’t include me. Vertebrae and possibilities.  
I’ve begun to whittle like my dead uncle.