Walking backwards on my face

Trees in the summertime. Pigs making fart noises with the mud. Balloons pressing against glass windows like breasts. Weirdos.

That was a poem I wrote when I was in Nam. I don't know if you like it...and I don't care, because I'm an Amerriicann. You're not (if you don't like it). It's poetry, and I do it in my sleep. I dare you to try and write some. Yeah right; like that would happen.