some small talk, and a poem

Hi everyone.

It is a beautiful day here in southwest Michigan-- sunny and chilly, a bit windy, what we call "winter" where I'm from-- the cyborg glue on my finger is slowly dissolving, I've only banged the wound like three times and had to yell "FUCK" it hurt so bad. Weather like this makes me want to smoke cigarettes, which I mostly don't do anymore, but I am going to go into town and have a fancy coffee drink and figure out how to be a writer, possibly looking melancholy and mysterious slouched over my laptop. Or not.

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Nomads Rejoice!

I want to participate in security, I say to Ariel
who has called to tell me about sex robots
as I wait in La Guardia.
We laugh about America.

America, America your legs are too long for your torso
your feet too big for your legs you outgrow pants on a weekly basis
your backpack is too heavy and you feel strange things in the night
a loud longing that clangs in your ears your bones ringing slightly
with a vibrating sourness from downstairs,
the aftershocks of the bomber that flew over
your mother soothed
don’t worry its just an airshow this is America you are safe.

I take off my long johns nowhere, over this country of mine
this country there is something there in my heart, or I want there to be
a bird behind the breastbone: a seagull a pigeon a sandhill crane
I am learning to love my country, admiring my biceps and my armpit air
in an airplane bathroom. agua no potable.
This land that was made for you and me.

At the Baltimore airport
they take the pocketknife I forgot I had
didn’t expect to feel so safe
waiting for my flight to Detroit.

On the plane I sit by the propeller, worry
about birds. Slept against the window,
dreamt that you lived in a police state
you were not careful about what you said
and it was everywhere.