Queen of Sacramento, Lady of Nebraska

the palm trees, the claustrophobic planes

the spelling of plains correctly

I keep the ideas of me you have

they suck into me & become me even more me

more I than I thought

I am

whatever you say I am

if I wasn't

then why would I say I am

eminem, the great fucking plains?

at least a valley you can get out of

mountains you can climb up

rivers you can get under

but we can have the plains

the regulars

the simple

the nothing-fancy-abt-that

the unchanging landscape

a field, a tree, here & there a copse

and you,

a livable corpse, a loveable corps

lovable corpse, covesick 

covestuck coeur. Get in yer crevice, baby.

Climb in the corn, crawl on the fours

spin round, divot it

dig out a little place, make a valley from your rich plentiful midwestern soil

bury your body there, make mountains around you

a seething grave

for the unchanging 

make less your monotonous burial scene

the excitement of the outback steaks & the smile I can makes

I'm going to put these words away, now. I want to experience some facts, now! and for once. Today I am going out in the world, but with a bike for the weather's too much for experience. I'd feel guilty leaving it behind.

When I last looked for employment, I went on a long, rainy january carride to beaverton. It was a westy's, or maybe... are there westy's in beaverton? It was a big bowling alley, supercorporate. I fell in love immediately. I fell in love driving, actually, the rain beating against shoddy wipers, the cliffs of the freeway climbing, climbing in the dark around, and the forest surrounding. I thought beaverton might be a romantic little sanctuary, buried in the lush of north oregon, the layers of soil and dirt brimming with life, earthworms, beetles, ferns of every sort. But was I surprised, then? After the long drive I knew that if my future workplace was in fact going to be this particular bowling alley, my forced lunches & dinners would be fries and outback steaks.

But my confidence! oh, I knew it, I just knew they'd want me. I was perfect. I would wear skirts, and have a nice haircut, and I'd be younger & cuter than the rest, and the patrons at the westy's bar would just love me. I'd keep the crowds thick. I'd keep them coming. Of course they'd see this clearly! The line in which I waited for my three-minute interview was one-hundred people long.

Today, I have this path to go along the boise river, and somewhere, over in the worthlessness of parkcenter boulevard, I'll creep alongside the red robin, smile a smile I can smile, and show them how fucking retardedly able to welcome rich douchebags to a restaurant am I. How capable, and how thrilled, even! I can smile and smile and smile. Just keep the bruise-tattoos and armpits to a minimum. Minimum is a pretty word.