amble in to the apple inn

the tool i write on
is the tool i play on
so i can not write
instead, i peek at the book of faces

“not too fast honey,
i’m in the suicide seat”
“i know, i know, i know”

past the town of Chlorine
starved for green
& the Pacific Northwest

past the town of Mercury
& Portland on the 205
your tax dollars at work
inter stating, just saying
Jesus is in Salem

“slow down honey”
i am, i am
behind the semi crawl
‘mcneilus’ on fender skirts
my people, pirates

spray me with travel anxiety
for pets

you take a swig of coffee
yak in Yakima. Yakima “relax”
sing the green fields of Calapooiea

bovine salt & pepper the hills
if we could stop eating beef
requires fifty times the land chicken uses

& my heart grows old
time is brutal
glenda’s bumpin’ her gums back home
eating raw chicken out of the freezer
any old rubbish honest to god

her father made her weigh herself every day
his bloodtough roughhouse roots
perverted the men
moldered his family

just yesterday i wondered where shauna was
today i see her on the front of robert pickton’s book
in the book of faces

in Frosh Week at UBC, chants are racist
misogynist this weltschmerz shsh
i am trying to write a happy song
but moths burst from my ears

amble in to the Apple Inn
whatever you like,
come in, come in
said the apple to the girl

*natalie wee
Room / VOL.
39.4 P. 62

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