The shadows at the bottom
of the lake move just like we do.
The cattle in the fields all nod their
heads in time with distant
strummed guitars.
Tornadoes
rip the woods apart and drop
deer from several stories high.
Their entrails get all tangled in
the branches.
Drinking beer from plastic cups
in an almost blacked out kitchen.
They talk about the politics of killing.
“We do it almost everyday
in many different violent ways.
If you don’t like how it is enjoy
the desert.”
There’s a satellite
in the backyard for talking to
the sky and it rotates in a circle
hearing nothing.
Teleporting Typewriter 