Farm Town, I’m calling the dogs on you. You’re a dream but you’re not; you’re escape that does a piss-poor job of it. You can be deleted in a fragment of heartbeat (with just a fraction of my body’s energy). You’re a rotten artist’s economics project. I choke in my sleep because I guess I never grew out of it. I toil seventeen hours a day and when I sleep I dream about it: tut tut tut. I’ve memorized the feeling of plowing in my fingertips. I solve farm geometry in my sleep and organize the math around my trees, because it’s easier, I think, than acknowledging the drought. I count on one hand: cherry, cherry, orange, cherry, and it’s cheery to be productive in a rotoscoped vision the color of kiddie candy. Gigantic watering cans! And my eyes so dumb and blue, mouth opened or closed, because I can choose! I bought a see-saw. An inflatable trampoline. I bought a distillery so I can sink into the third couch cushion where I’ll fall asleep for an hour or two and wake up at three when the thieves exit my dark street. Where’s my real home, my real bed, my American Farm Town Dream?