all the best ones
are filled with water

i enjoy the finer things in life
a math teacher in a sundress
leaning over a coffee cup
to place three fingers on my forearm

later on, lights off
her lace on the floor
she sent an invitation into outer space
that arrived at my door.

although black isn't my favorite color,
it runs a close second to red
we discussed this and other menial facts
sharing my last cigarette
sweating underneath the bed.

they had big yards and driveways
but there were no lemonade stands or ice cream trucks
the tractors drove through the middle of town
the people didn't use sidewalks or drugs
they drank dollar domestics and never passed algebra
and there wasn't a gallon of whiskey to be had
there weren't any transvestites either
the people had seven children and not one job
they walked on two jiffy store feet
and had only half as many teeth.

when we were just kids living in Nebraska
running through cornstalks holding hands
where the sun died crazy deaths over the mountains
you were my neighbor
and the bank took our land

i would've never imagined
you living in a whiskey barrel
offering ******* and squawking squirts
giving them away for free
to hideous former cowboys
substituting laughter for anger

intead,
a moment like this:
finding you alone on the banks
of a dull river
shivering,
swinging from a branch

the morning that you left
i bought a black felt pen
and almost drew your face
in the mirror

the morning that you left
i bought a flower
and thought about watering it

the morning that you left
i went for a walk and
caught a cactus
in my foot