Dear Art Farm,
Here in Nebraska, the ticks confuse beauty marks, but humans grow closer through each inspection of skin and lift of cotton and hair.
In Nebraska, mosquitoes engage in foreplay. Ignore signs of disinterest (bug spray and swatting) and stick to skin until until until penetration
Here in Nebraska, a poet falls in love with a band saw, meditates on the circular movements of electric sander.
In Nebraska, the stars wallpaper the sky.
Here in Nebraska, mice collaborate with an oil painter through midnight parade of paws on paper
In Nebraska, happy hour is whenever one calls on it, as wine drips onto tongues, slow and tired from farmed imaginations.
In Nebraska, the poet’s body (shy coward in the city) digs itself out of clothes and skinny dips in a lake. Breaks up with binder, pressing down gender of flesh just for a moment in order to free the wild within.
In Nebraska, shovels become totems. Holes are dug to remind the humans how deep this earth goes. To remind the humans how trees begin.
In Nebraska, raccoons replace house pets. So do spiders, wingless flies and mice sneezing on cayenne pepper.
In Nebraska, artists & writers find themselves as they find each other.
In Nebraska, stories are pressed into palms and given away over cups of coffee and long drives from one town to another.
In Nebraska, we become the wild life. We become wild. We become. We become. Free.