Where's my daughter? She's by the lake Smoking cigarettes and Reading poetry. She's watching a little black and blue bird with a tongue-depressor tail hop and squeak through the dry southern grass. She's listening to the salt-shaker wind and sexed-up cicadas looking for an insectual mate, or a quick bug ****.
Where's my daughter? She's looking at the night sky breaking it into sectors of astrological wonders and making amazement for herself, with zodiacal confirmation. and kissing like a serpent, talking about theories of relativity and mass and the speed of the light and making love on the boot of a car.
Where's my daughter? She's lying naked dreaming about whiskey she can't have and writing poetry on the internet. she's listening to foreign music and wishing other people would do that too, with her. she's wishing boys wanted to hear her crude poetry or talk about writers with crippling alcoholism or ****** addictions, and appreciate art in a way that isn't just to get in her pants after.
Where's my daughter?* The clouds. The ******* sky. That's where she is. But she's not on a plane.