Sitting, uncomfortably warm, clammy, I plotted
drawing a picture with words but all that I could do
was come up with a title. I love the title, but now
I couldn’t possibly tell you what it is that I feel

as I have fallen into this crevice of my spirit, a jagged
pair of cliffs pinning me to my feverish desires, showing
me fields of acres of perfectly windswept snow with
three little blades of Kansas grassy stuff protruding

to warn me away, to ask me to take the dullest carving
knife and start splitting out all of those parts of my
defective brain, hoping to pinch off bits of the ravaged
spirit, pulling from the sinewy brain mush stuff that

tears like fat on prime rib. Some animal from
another corner of the barren field yells to tell me
that if I sever my brain, I will lose my life, but I yell
back, “but I will feel much better.”

.