We could meet in Kansas. I've never been there. Get a room in a very sociable motor court. The kind with those faded green metal chairs right outside the door, by the ashtray. Watch the big sky all night. Well, not ALL night. But every now and again we could step out, barefoot. Look at the moon. Drink a bottle of beer. In this part of Kansas, the moon is always full. And big. It is fill-up-the-window big.
If its a hot night (and it is), we dress ourselves flimsily and guided by a giant moon, find the backside of some reservoir and a floating dock. Some call it swimming, skinny-dipping, what have you; however this night, with the sky reflected off the water as bright and large so as to make the cosmos seem doubled, this night I call worship. When I wrote that part about poets being paid in flesh, I was talking to you. About this. There's backstrokes and submerged fondling, laughter and holy shit! did you hear that owl? It came from over there, that clump of trees. At some point, we're bobbing silent and just staring at each other, sorting out what has happened, is happening, why we're in this Midwest fantasia, and a little lone rabbit, curious for whispers, cautiously hops up the floating dock and looks over the edge.
Later on you can tie me to the sink with a pair of stockings and do your worst.
