Each time I fly I look a little longer out the window, so that’s good, that’s maybe
upgraded depth perception, but who knows since I didn’t take physics
on the Smoking Block as a girl in overalls in a Mustang at the fair
sitting cross-legged in the back with a joint or a bottle or some other joy thing
illegal, alien, licked, fringed, and laced. It was Frank O’Hara. It was D.H. Lawrence.
It was Lawrence Ferlinghetti in my purse with me trekking the sweet fodder.
It was not needlepoint. It was never Einstein. It may have been Darwin
somewhere in the back of the little skull but more likely it was condoms.
More like it was a party in the hunting shack up on the parkway where we went to fuck
because it was fucking because it was forgetting because it was rural America on drugs in the 70’s
and not me or about me by any means but just another way of not dying on the spot
as in a last ditch effort or a tryout or a rabbit hutch with a ragged hole to jump swift
and brutal out of—just a country way of being urban when all we really had
was just a rope and a goat and a feral but ramshackle old heart, that sick antelope.