you wanted to know didn't you
or didn't you
this is the suburbs,
dry dry dry
where you eat yr schnuck's grilled cheese
in the big house.
where you pace that chasm of big house
wondering, that crucial question
that once came the instinctual craze of a living bodily organism,
what to do,
what plan for whose body,
so you drink the cheapest whiskey beneath yr cushy bed
alone, and it is dry dry dry.
not to use analogies, but didn't john that baptist scream with locust throat out of shouting range until it was dry dry dry.
where you think of her or her or her or her and all you can do is sit in the tropical home depot built missouri backporch devoid of people or anything but unnatural birds and nuclear mosquitos and decide which her henry miller is writing about,
and across that horizon of prominent telephone wires,
theres a biker among chevy suburbans,
and goddamnit you betcha his lips are dry, dry, dry dry.