Rolling Meadows. I have seen them. When the grasses roll like waves on a contained ocean, and somewhere in the picture there is a young woman with long black hair blowing across her face, and maybe behind her you can see the blur of a wild horse prancing with burning nostrils to reach the barbed wire that lines the perimeter. What I choose to identify with changes constantly. The rolling grass, the wind that threatens to rip it up and transplant it, the human involved, and the trapped wild animal.. happy in it's domesticated knowledge to see the fence-line as a goal... as a reward... as a boundary that protects and controls the destiny of this beast, and when it gets so far, it stops and worries about food. Worries about hiding from lightning. Worries about how the eyes are on the side of the head and how the future is a complex compilation of defensive side-winding grips.
I miss lightning.
I don't need to eat.
My eyes are as they have always been.
A sea of rolling landscape will always be before me.
Will I ever eat horse head soup? Not unless I am dying and cannot live another day to know you, without it.
To live another day to know you, I will eat anything. I will eat myself slowly from fingertip to tongue, to see you breathe another day in my presence. I am already an organ donor, and baby, you have no idea how far I will go to give you my life.