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How I spent ten years searching for a home

in my own body. How I pilgrimaged

worm-like through the dirt

of the heart. Its small towns and regulars.

Its toy cars and cinemas.

Cities were not built here.

Showmen were not born here.

The things that flock here

have not named themselves

but we identify them by the ways in which

they color our skies. Shovel Gun Shovel.

Make sure you come armed. Be sure

to show up knowing what you want

lest you misfire. When you arrive

at the empire of my heart, please

bring violence. Bring your armies.

I am asking that you charge into

the graveyards and homes of my sternum.

I am asking you to draw your sword,

Shovel Gun Shovel, to approach

loudly, to stomp on the doormats,

to make yourself known. Do not let me

forget you. Do not let me go easy.

Do not come bearing peace.

When you arrive at the heart’s fortress,

light fires. Capture my villagers.

When you decide to leave the countryside

and settle down across my landscape,

do not take your small pale blue car.

Do not stop at gas stations on the way

and smile at strangers as you pay for your coffee.

Take your knife. Come hungry and merciless.

Do not surrender until you have what you want.