kingsoftrain

God’s plan is to follow them out of the garden. It doesn’t work, and now hunger is on the table. Cry where you eat. Have a mother. 

The infant overcome by the loss of its first loneliness.

The existence
of an infant
overcome.

For us, for God.

Suicide is a shooting star seen by a child who cannot die. The mirror in my son's room is asleep and watched by god. I tend to my miracle headache with the peephole of a horse's eye. Order whiskey online by pressing a thumbnail of me as a nonbreathing infant. Meditation: the boy Christ writes his name late into the night of his mother's hearing loss. By morning, there are seven sounds for rest. Angels coding for people who've never been nude. 

God crushes angels in a mirror.

A childhood haircut catches fire near my unseeable wrist. 

That deer coughs up a string from your mother's stomach.

Doves
for less
solve 
death 

Reading younger writers is how I cry for my mother

I am in treegrief love with a being created by its kidnapper

God got to die with no one around. My son will soon reach the highest age he's allowed to be healthy at. I was a boy pointing a capgun at roadkill. I plan my return. I plan it knowing.

Your mother saw you in no dream
and your father
threw a rabbit
at a tornado

Alien
with insomnia
the rabbit
had a chance

I was born in the shape of my death.
I got there first, I'd say.  
To god after god
until it got old

God cuts himself in Eden but this isn’t a dream. I eat near my son. My son cannot imagine himself beyond yesterday. My happiness for him trails off like a language the brain can decide on. I worry my pretty little head over the amount of skin god goes through daily. Yearly I sleep for a baby or two.  

Nothingness surrounds its own escape. God a godless ghost stuck in a thirst trap. Death has one shape but the lonely are fast learners. There were things in my mouth put there to check on my mouth. My son is as young as a hoax. As god needing rest. As not wanting to eat you but wearing your clothes.