cornfields and rockets.

I think I have an unrealistic conception of what the south is like.
I envision dirt roads and old, weathered wooden houses,
With sturdy front porches lined with rocking chairs,
And nectarines and lemonade and jars of honey.
And everyone has screened doors and southern cross windmills,
And wears straw sun hats and hangs their laundry out on the line to dry,
And the sky is always blue and clear,
And you can always see the stars at night.
And if you wanted to,
You could sleep in a cornfield.


We went traipsing through a cornfield the other day,
It was beautiful.
Slender green stalks,
With reaching arms,
Stretching to touch the sky.
Flimsy leaved hands,
Wafting and fluttering in the breeze.
Knee high by the fourth of July, they say.
Most of the crop was my height,
But that was fine.
There’s something liberating about getting lost
In a field of corn.
For a brief moment,
You’re isolated from the world.
Alienated.
And nothing matters.




(I found a wild onion.
It tasted sweet.
I’m thinking about taking up gardening.)











I didn’t watch the fireworks tonight,
It would’ve been too heartbreaking.
As corny as it sounds,
I want nothing more
Than to sit under a sky of exploding rockets
Hand in hand with the one I love.
And as the cherry-bombs and roman candles detonated,
We would kiss.
Cue majestic, grandiose sweep of violins and bluebirds on your shoulder,
All Cinderella’s castle and stained glass,
And glittering magic fairy dust.
And it would be disgustingly sappy.
Yes, I want that bullshit.


Instead, I drove in the opposite direction,
The pyrotechnic stars bursting behind me.
All I could see were the flairs of the fireworks
Reflecting off of the clouds
As the sonic booms from the explosions rattled my car.
It felt like the city was being bombed.
It felt like the apocalypse.
I expected air raid sirens to sound.

They didn’t.
The world wasn’t ending.


I went and saw some friends.
We lounged.
One of my friends calls herself
The virgin of the couch.
(She’s hardly a virgin)
A poetic way of saying she’s a hermit.
I want to paint her,
With neoclassical drapery.
And naked Egyptian servants.


It’s Sunday.
The day of rest.
I’m going to lounge some more when I wake up.
Goodnight.