Autobiographia Literaria

I can take the girl out of the cornfield, I can try, rip cornstalks out

of the girl, unearth roots from ribcages. You can replant them anywhere,
but there’s nothing that can be done with Midwestern charm.

Don’t thank me, thank Lake Effect genealogy, from Lake Michigan itself,
thank the flatland consuming miles, that brown mass paired tastefully

with months of gray skies, there’s hundreds of farmers killing themselves
over these colors every year, these colors are all mine.I am not a farmer,
but some days I wonder if this loam isn’t meant for more than seeds

and scraping hands. Plant my feet, my scarred ankle and arms, every ribboned
curl on my head. Take my densest worry. I always push them into soil, deep,

refuse to nourish them,how are they still sprouting? What fuels them,
and whatfuels me, what is my profession?I am a preserver.Give me your words,
I can jar them, boil them, seal tight, watch as I turn mere letters into burnt lime

oceans, perfumeof charred schooners and salt. I am a magician, and you are
my gypsy man, juggling and predicting shades in graying sky, and you’re saying

this is just the way it is, and you’re sayingI can’t tell you, you won’t understand,
but you can tell me. Who really knows anything about anything anyways? You can
tell me stars are marshmallow fluff, aliens built today’s Technology and I will

not twitch a lip. I’m not an encyclopedia and maybe an encyclopedia isn’t
even an encyclopedia, but maybe you are. I keep coming back to you for answers,

comingback to soak up every yellow and red particle emitting from you. I want
to explore pages inside your hands, and read knowledge formed from the golden
forest in your eyelashes. So tell me seagulls are bagels, I will listen, honestly,

because your guess is as good or better than mine and right now I’m guessing you
and I are going to be comfortable sitting under blankets together until we figure out

just what all this is all about. And even when we don’t exactly figure it out, at least
I know you will move the orange juice to the front of the fridge after you drink from
the carton, and I know this because there’s never a glass in the sink and the dishwasher

is full (or clean)and at least you will know this doesn’t bother me, observing your
shiny specters shuffle around me when you’re away—the channel on HLN, the shower
curtain left open, I need to feel these, undisturbed.


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