Burning Fields

The mint is burning—

                                       I can tell by my eyes—

and no one here grows wheat anymore.

We seriously lack for amber waves of.

                                                                    Livestock shitting everywhere:

       1)  Plop plop plop.

       2)  Slit their thick wet throats.

       3)  Hamburgers.

It’s my summer of the Manson Family—Doesn’t everyone have one?—

                                                                                                And I’m a little freaked

about how neat it all sounds: Young women acting like little tiny girls:

Holding hands and singing songs, their faces clean as winter.

Just like children. He said.

                                                                              (Except for all the fucking.)

My google searches are a little out of hand.

                                                                              (And the other stuff.)

Hurricanes are everywhere and I delight

in thinking about discrete killings, consider eating the dead mouse my cat brings.