Partial Midwestern Love

Goodness it is the City of Iowa in Iowa
City and still I pine for Naomi, and wonder
about area codes. She leaves her panties
atop manholes, especially the ones that are
metallic and say “domestic water—Iowa City.”
these are not technically considered manholes. I am out of
better
words. I have written for Naomi six-hundred-fifty times.
I apologize I have no other subjects, and for running out
of objectivity Don McLean is to play at the
Esquire Theater out on Market Street, next to the
only joint in the City of Iowa in Iowa city that
sells good coffee, so many other pockets of the
earth are kinder to insomniacs, can I carry you
in my earth, Naomi, at the bottom of my rishi tea
mug and I don’t know what any of this means or if it
romantic
enough but i am out loud and if nothing else counts
then this should mean something. bye bye miss

american
                                                                                         cunt
pie                         Naomi, when I write poetry
about you I always begin with the line “darling
lavender cigarette lady” and end with a discussion of the
midwestern
pervert. fry Klondike bars for me, Naomi. the Iowan
air is thicker than your thighs on a fat day, and I,
I drink indian tonic water by my lonesome, I fry jello cubes
and pretend it is your fingers down my throat, your
glycerine lemon-lime wetness           Naomi:
fry omelettes for me, i dial your number and
buy your favorite co-op cheese. I let the world rot. we are
the kind of people who wonder what kind of people we are,
so
become a writer right here, Naomi, in the city
of Iowa city, where the only thing happening is Don
McLean
and the tender wagging of pens. Naomi, please make
poetry–
tell your readers how we made love
in a tow-away zone, and I will tell mine that before I
smothered you dead we were partial lovers in the American
Midwest, and before that we were once just two
people at a county fair; that I once held your hand in
public.