In one of
my many
lifetimes, when
I was a child,
my dad had a
sprawling stretch
of land in
Missouri.
He had 200
head of cattle.
We used to run
the cows we
bought at auction
through this
shoot with wooden
beams that closed
on their necks.
My stepmom took
this gun-like object
and put an orange
tag in their ear.

My brother and I used
to play with this black and
white steer.
We called him old #56
because of the number on
his tag.
We chased him, and then he
chased us.
I felt bad for
him, the tag in
his ear.
I talked to my
dad about it.
He said if the steer
ever got lost,
we could find him.
I felt good about that.
I didn't want to lose him.

One night
the following summer,
we were sitting down for
dinner.
I hadn't seen
old #56 for a while.
I asked Dad where
he was.
He didn't say anything.
We were having
t-bone steaks.

As I write this,
my black and white
kitten, Bukowski,
bites at the pen and
tries to wrestle my
wrist as it moves across
the paper.
I'm glad that he
isn't a steer.

The under shell of
the tortoise looked
like a sunset.
Blasts of color:
orange, maroon, burnt sienna.
I caught them in
the garden at
sunrise, eating a
tomato or chewing into
a head of lettuce.
They always looked so
serious.

I was just a
sunburnt boy, with
cutoff jeans and a
straw hat.
I caught toads too.
But when they peed on me,
I let them go.
I loved that land.
Ponds and streams,
fishing and climbing trees.
oh,
sweet, green
youth.

The farmer has cows,

some poultry with a watchdog --


and holiday guests.

A house is where I find myself in
Any place is great for amazing masker
A house is where I fit myself in
Anything can work for an adapter

Long way from home I have always been
No sorrow, no remorse, just emptiness
Long days and nights it has always been
Not sad or mad, but no happiness

Never realized the hole inside of me
Been trying to live my days to the fullest
Now realized how depressing things be
None of the work I did actually worth it

Be it I'm done from the rushed life
Back home to where I can breathe
Walking slower and having long drive
Back home to where heart can beat

A Farm near Duivendrecht, here I am
Standing alone amongst the nature
The sight of gigantic, green grassland
Where I left behind, before I was mature

To the days I forgot to appreciate
To the windblows I forgot to soak in
To the times I forgot to lie aback laid
To the work I did to forget my pacing

Now at home where I forgot to miss
Now at home where the real heart is

The dewy grass makes me miss your lips,
as does the rain clouds.
When I see the baby foxes, your eyes appear,
rusty brown like the tractor outside.

Metal roof, where we lay under,
quietly listening to the drops.
You grasp at my warm waist,
pulling tighter like the loose faucet handle.

I crave your delicate peck against my lips,
like the green truck yearns to start.
My hands run through your hair as we lay
in the soft silence.

Dogs running and coffee cooling,
waiting for the sun to crest the hills.
I want this now, I want this later,
I want this forever.

Beneath the dark clouds, the
wheat blows gently on the farm.
I lie in bed and think about all
the loud farm machines that
will whirl into action at daybreak.
But tonight, as always,
silence is my best friend.

May the willows grow through your dog cages.
May the mice die and rot where they lay.
Half-moons of black dirt once filled up my fingers.
Prayed more than once for owls to carry you away.
No longer my ritual to clear sludge from the spillway
as your orchards grow barren
weeds cover your everything,
And mushrooms lay seeds
in your brain.