i dream of you and

undeniable truths beyond my reach,
a filthy window too high,
an unsure ladder too low
a suitcase devoid of confidence
packed in a hurry, wrinkled articles of love and hate
still waving from secret pockets
thumbs held across freeways,
hearts holding breath
barns seeking the freedom of old America
factories seeking absolution, they want to abort themselves and to finally be regretful.

i was a teenager
once.
Once for about five minutes i looked at this land from a backseat passenger window and saw with fresh eyes the hope that we planted in between the rows of corn, wheat, soybeans.
i didn't see the planes over head, flying low and precise to distribute our daily dose of misinformation and cancer.

i was just a girl
still dreaming of love - this gigantic, vague thing that would capture my attention, fix my grammar and make me whole.

what i learned later
was that you have to do those things for yourself.
nobody understands grammar.
not even the internet.

and if your windows are filthy you should look at  your hands. choose your most favorite finger and lick it. make art in the filth. draw love, draw hate, draw out every secret desire. someone will understand. somewhere, across this fast food wasteland there is a soul broken like yours, waiting for the art that swerves to the shoulder and brings it home.