Hell is a black star provided by Triple A, free of charge. The word hops off a combine like a farmer with one leg. Shot it off in a rage. It will take you all day to hit a golf ball off the highest dune and into the lake. The tourists all try, their bald spots gleaming.
People say they live on a thumb.
Maybe you can control a river. I have nailed them to a road sign like targets for the restless play of hunters. I have no need of a crew, no need for barges hauling the gimcrack of endless factories, no need for commerce or refuse of northern towns. I let the waters carry me free. I have known clouds unhinged with lightning which raises its violet arms like an actor in some distant play, seen the hammer-blows of summer tear down the blue of the sky, seen water snakes drop from the black hair of trees.