You slowly approached the middle of the room on a warm desert night. The air is warm and dry. You can feel particles of sand moving around your ankles as a slight breeze pushes past you every now and then. In the sandstone floor there is a small depression in the form of a ring.
Chocolate croissant eaters anonymous May your passionate true purpose be revealed in your neurotic embryonic bypass, gas-mask placenta I mean nothing by her yours I’s I mean eye like icecream No question We’re not so different We both go to school (in and out) It’s up to you to know purpose What butter, baby I’ll
The body that demaractates me Is the first barrier That I pondered passing I was four years old when I first misplaced my tongue When I Slurped it down Spurring my eyes shut Puncturing an entrance To a rear rescue room I ran to grasp my body I gasped to own it Like one owns
I. Apoplethecary There were days when, fettered by the combustion engine, tick-tocking toked-up daze Of an electric, lithophane, plugged in life, Honed by a thousands hints when so small things became wrapped up in skin, So begin to fester underground in the belly of the beast beset by newsfeeds Of felled trees and ever more
When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagements, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good
The 9th of August I water echinacea and watch melons grow. I find the scattered feathers of Turkeys in the morning, and the blood dripped dried below. I watch infinity’s strata unfold as keets corralled amass and grow into spotted Guinea Fowl. I recall, remember, am reminded of the depth of space, the tininess of
Somewhere on the border, where the cold and the dry kills everything that needs to be killed, somewhere around here is where I’m from. Where the weeds are lush and the grass is gone. Where the cow’s milk tastes dirty and the breast milk tastes sad. Where bodies are cremated, not buried, and you can
I am fixated On a certain kind Of imagined sea creature That doesn’t exist yet, But has also Been clawing through the muck On the pond scum floor Of my stomach, Always. It loosens clots of dirt in my belly, And is made of white-hot metals That repel the water around it, Orbs of burning