the farmer was a soothsayer. all night,
some days, she’d tell me my future. as
much as she could tell me until i’d blink
no more. until she’d tuck me into the
extra-tall, extra-perfect bed. the farmer’s
kitchen sink was running next to the farmer’s
crockpot. she’s never one to run out of
macaroni, the farmer. in my dreams, late
those very same nights, i’d tell her future.
and it was not marooned like mine.
love is not moored. so whose soul lies
in ruins, dives several layers through texas?
not the farmer’s. the soul of the graying
(which is the color of the filtered sky). which
is not the color of the farmer’s future. which
is the future of hams and of (generally) pig
futures. which is very bright, is always up up
up and up and up. i told my love, the farmer’s
fink, that he was fanning souls from layers deep.
from beneath the desert saguaro. because he was
always employed by the power of the great
escape. the fantasy (imagine that, a fantasy!)
of the great escape was his muse. he was a
believer in the prophesies of the farmer,
of marooned and of morose. it’s not so simple,
i said. do i look marooned? i asked, teasing.
the tease is the joker’s steppingstone.
and when i go? every mile another blowout.
futures glimmer next to the macaroni. my
soul drives ice through an entirety of texas.
and was this skeptic my future love, my plate
of bacon on the mesa? i told the farmer of a
future that was alabama. she said wrong dir-
ection. pork harbors several layers of soul. and
kisses over the crockpot from our farmer. the
graying temples where we worship our driving
loveaches, whittling them into loves or erasures.
it rains macaroni, a spectacle, which, like any
pestilence, ruins the macaroni.
once on the open road, i remember so much
luck. i keep count as i pass each patrol car
in texas. in new mexico. in arizona. in cali-
fornia. even in california, where i am coasting
past truck drivers and their service stations.
i relax as i coast all the way to ocean beach.
