What thoughts I have of this place tonight, the heartland! On my late night walk to the supermarket, feeling lusty and kind in the smaller city.
Am I feeling lost tonight? In between bright and colorful houses of the semi-energetic middle class, dreaming of their hardwood floors.
I had been running my fingers along my own mahogany molding when I had that same hungry notion. Only a few blocks away.
I was a ruddy wanderer once too! Though I was never as gay or as gray as I ought to have been… (I’ve been meaning to tell you why I only write in Russian.)
I got hung up on the revolutionaries.
I said a-HA! but the Mississippi Market was all darkened windows, and I wished after neon fruits.
In my reflection at the window I was dreamy and star-crossed
I stood there naked all night long, admiring the sexual way I grew hair on my chest.
Am I lonely? or am I more lovely this way? I wondered.
There could have been a woman lingering in front of the bulk grains!
Solemnly she would contemplate the Flax or Barley, sweeping her dark, wavy hair back and forth,
she would see me there reflected in her glasses
thinking how refreshing it was to see a man who,
so passionately, refused to enter into markets
She would admire my Walt Whitman beard and the tired qualities of my body,
when at last I would speak to the grain:
Where-O! where-O! might I be blessed at home?
O’er amber waves or in the throws of snow?
Dispel your chaffy garb without remorse,
Swoon through the rye, the miller’s hands are course.
O’er amber waves or in the throws of snow?
Dispel your chaffy garb without remorse,
Swoon through the rye, the miller’s hands are course.
Then waxing at last upon her timid beauty and the wonders of her pale belly, she would not be able to hear me.
I would turn for her, so the moonlight could play wonderfully off my bare buttocks, before whooping and stomping into the night.
Knowing honestly that I was more masculine and American than Charon.
I flexed my boyish muscles above the Great Polluted Mississippi River.
