kingsoftrain

genitalia 3

A man can be seen sitting on the roof of his mother’s house. He has a gun, or a stick, and some say they can hear a baby crying. I am the man’s most quiet brother. A cop talks to my brother from below and is pointing at my brother’s dog and is telling my brother that we are all going to count to three and the dog will die. My brother screams it isn’t his dog. The dog looks hurt. I think by this.

genitalia 2

In the dream
they shove an egg
down my pants
and start
punching

Later,
I keep my jeans on
Swim

to the lake’s
middle

genitalia 1

In the garden
the tree
of hair

Later,
god up
at night

There’s nothing to do
in this unicorn

On the jesus
of our headache
That mouth

They gave my insides to the animal that had smelled me in heaven. They are trying to grow the loneliest woman.

A ventriloquist falls silent in a film that shows hell. There are places in heaven that are too close to god.

Creation became small enough to hold us. I won’t be putting my feet on the earth and that’s gonna have to be ok. I have been told more than once about my sentences. My deep-in-thought newborns. About the rape fantasy cutoff I’d have made had I not in second grade pissed on that mat in music class. God having to hear god, imagine. I wanted to kill myself and tell someone. Language started with a deer. In the deer that heard it. Snow remembers being snow, but you have to be there. The internet stops to pray in a prayer.

Once you eat the eye of god
the eating
and the eye

last forever. Existence

has no mechanism
to recognize
death. We need

animals. Holy

grief sale
we need

animals. 

Image mourns too early 
the mirage
that haunts
sobriety. This drone

that drone 

There was room
at the inn

In rabbit astronomy, a hole touches a hole. I want you to imagine the loneliness of being a thing that others its own cure. Death loves the disabled. I am still hurt by the art you don't like. My brothers have started running. Dearest brothers I was hit at a different clip by those who would say a prayer over weapons buried in the garden. I don't think anyone should receive an award for writing prose. School shootings, that's why. Also psalms. Also haiku. Also the age nostalgia reaches in America and the age it doesn't in Israel. Death loves the disabled. Did I say that already? God sure misses being notified of the yearning we've created.