My Birthplace, Creston Iowa

I am almost 27, I was thinking about going to Creston for my birthday.

I haven't been there since I was a one-year-old, though I have since been writing it on identification papers. The photos of Creston somewhat surprisingly remind me a lot of the town that I grew up in, similar to any small American white-bred agricultural town, perhaps. I imagine myself arriving there with a great sigh, only to return to the pavement in awe and wonder of the absurdity of our lives.

Maybe I will just drive to New Mexico instead.

UPDATE: I went to neither Creston, Iowa or New Mexico for my 27th. I went to Burning Man, it was fun.

Woke Up From This One

In Oakland, CA.

I watched the wine glasses sink in the quick sand.

Off the banks.

The sky were bricks of grey, building blocks.

The ground was a beautiful brown, so close from red.

I went after the glasses as they were sinking.

Like I was so afraid to lose the nectar nightcaps.

I lost my footing and

as I was shrunk into, I fell into the river.

Quick moving sand down and then I was swept away

by the fast-moving current. It curved.

When I side-paddled

hard enough to make it to shore I looked

up and through the brambles noticed a man approaching.

Who could have been the man of my dreams-

tattered, labor-working

vest, suspenders, cowboy hat.

He had a stern, kind deep sadness in his eyes.

He put a gun to my head.

I said.

(on my knees)

I don't want to die

I want to live

I want to live

I want to live.

And he put the gun down.

We embraced so tightly that I could feel the curve

of his back.