In a field of shorn wheat
I jerk off into the stars
and dig in the dirt until my fingers bleed.
This is Nebraska.
Nothing like Iowa.
In Iowa it would be a field of harvested corn.
I’d still masturbate.

I take a drink of deep water and weep.
Cry myself to sleep
and dream of potatoes.

But that’s Idaho.

Would you think me mad if I said god speaks to me
or would you think me madder still if I said he didn’t but I believe?

Shining women scream and I taste the sounds of their words
and hear such colors as to make gods jealous.
I still feel pain.

I’m a simple man, not holy at all, not a praying man, too simple by far.
Feed me completely.

Whisper words into my soul:
Love and lust and compassion. Music and desire and death. Addiction and prayer and
weakness. Water and loss and orgasm. Vindication and forgiveness and nothing else.

Allow me this full harvest.
And under a cold moon I will rest with my cock in my hand.

christopher…. ‘08

My most recent poem. It still needs a bit a bit of work, since, as has been pointed out to me, Idaho isn’t in the Midwest.