kingsoftrain

God, time, and touch are all I write about. Sleep covers each. This poem is for the nonconsecutive years my kids won’t have me. Angels were created when god asked an angel about addiction. I write about angels too I guess. Imagine caring about drugs in her system. I don’t look at stars but will when I’m dying.

I wish for you
that you can die
thinking
on your death

The movies

got away
some
went first
The writing

suffered
so what
I stayed

as sober
as a spider
in an appetite
not long
for god
and the writing

had a silent
mother
or went
in a mother

silent
oh most
thorough
of autofictions
oh doom
scrolling
son of my son's
suicide
have you a part

for the speaking
father
I'm not

here to be sad
I'm there
and my brothers

bike
up a hill
that can feel
an ant
die

You're the churchbell
of your dream

A rock goes through a frog in Ohio and the non-addicts hear a churchbell. My son is sick and my son is sick online. To be a thing born is to know that god has never seen a face.

high in front of my family

sharing
with a doll
a thunderstorm,

the hair in my stomach turns white.

A bee fills with blood

can’t
find its mom

Prayer a tender spoon lost in its care for the shy mouth

Food how angels enter death

Of all
the suicidal
people to be

what made
you think

I hope none of it changed your life

THE BEGINNING

snow
on nothing’s
cricket



THE BEGINNING

unslept
in exhausted
stillness

do we know
god
where stuff
is


THE BEGINNING

a bomb
in time
a hole
in a child
the childhood
of that
hole


THE BEGINNING

the lost 
ghost 
hidden

by Eve

forever
a sickness
falling
ill


THE BEGINNING

raccoon light

loneliness
your mouth
no mouth
has

autofiction is isolating
or god
doesn’t write
about women

raccoon light

cancer in the skinned person’s empty hospital takes my cock’s confession 

the beginning 

grief, ashtray, arson

I talk my horror angel into never again using an oven

eggs
in microwaves
miss 
my missed

& secretly

ate
teeth


THE BEGINNING

I thought they said call off the dolls. God is the different word for god. I rolled my brother’s eye under a door and into a room the color of his eye. Grief is the last cigarette of kingdom. Are you watched like god or watched like a baby? (how to tell if you’re a baby) How lonely: I dream of doing the job I have. What does a mouth do but reach for a mouth? Fall asleep waiting for an angel to eat your teeth. The child I’m selling comes with a gun.


THE BEGINNING

Dog died of old age in a motel room in Ohio

Idk seems wrong, seems like autofiction
taught time
nakedness 

I’m not photogenic
being sad
for mom

I am ugly in a mirror that cares for my teeth
I washed another’s body
longer
than you

At least in hell you can think about hell

hunger 
in Ohio
is quiet
for two

Each beast tires differently of god

suicide, or clothes



THE BEGINNING

Reading in code about disease-erased sadness, I left in a cornfield an epileptic no one liked. Deer and dog forgave Ohio its obsession with god’s manufactured patience. The horse that screamed scrame and my math teacher heard a glass of milk praying for my sister’s rib to break. We loved little. Doubled over orphans and weapons weapons made.


THE BEGINNING

I hold myself in the dark

That’s 
the whole
poem

You want a mirror, a god
of the anti
rare

Father, mother, a cry

( baby
shaped
things


THE BEGINNING

I don’t know how to be here. On the moon I was with my nephew and I taught him the best form to use when running away from snow. My knees gave out and not all of my brothers stopped breathing. I searched my father online. Mom sent me pics I needed to be there to see. My sons died in this order: daughter, deer ghost, ex-angel. My stomach took suicide as a noise stuck in a falling rabbit. It’s not hard being sad. Take steps. If your son is sick, say a prayer that he is sick long enough to sleep through AI songs about Charlie Kirk. Call your dreams deer dreams then don’t. Fuck them deer. Ohio is a hole in Bethlehem. 


THE BEGINNING

Frog of my stomach, mouse of her brain. Aw, sis, we could never let the same animals go. The creatures good at hiding were god’s. A tooth tells a bitemark about the quiet inside of your mouth. I become in dreams food that my children can eat.


THE BEGINNING

Shape has come to mean my body turns out the lights. There are no angels in the ocean. You can’t pay for my most medically alive son. Also I’ve never seen blood but bro I think there’s alot of it. I scream inside of my mother at a stone. Inside of my father’s ankle at my father. For a second I come to in the sexless bodies of my motherfull cousins and the doubled orphan christ writes to me in prose some advice on how to ruin a psalm. Oh long song of wrongdoing. Tattoo shop in a raindrop machine. Eat after me. The heart saves nothing. God even less.


THE BEGINNING

A rabbit with a bloody nose nudges in a weak world a cross to surrender its math to the slack call of collapse. My brothers paint my body in a dream where a coat’s amnesia is a crime that snow blames on an Ohio addict whose mirrors belong, belong, belong. Oh golden fetus your undug eye. Your sightseeing as surgery on the predictably sick. What would you become if it were the last creature running that your parents would see in a field at the same time? Existence reached us. Then stopped. 


THE BEGINNING

I tried to write this yesterday.
My son’s hands
were almost
asleep.
A noiseless
dog
had fainted.
A pencil went dark
and I drank
to that.