I throw handfuls of myself into the air

I come from Indiana, where all the stories / about me are true: the day I stole that policeman’s horse, the day / I drove my Honda blindfolded into a tornado, / the day I spray painted cellar door, cellar door / over and over on my girlfriend’s cellar door until her father / chased me with a burning log into the woods, where he couldn’t find me / because I was making love to his daughter under a bridge in a thunderstorm. / I come from Indiana, and when I’m there I enter the air like a teenager / diving from a boat, the hard blade of his torso slicing the lake / while his mother, out of earshot, calls him home.

“I Come from Indiana,” Jeffrey Bean, Juked 10 or here.