~ drone(&)chickenhouse ~ .from.

crossing

god’s gift to god is all boy. is doomed to repeat melancholy in real time. is punching his erection. is trying your hand at territorial absence. is not feeling it on the day of the mime’s vigil. is bombed. is local. is thought to have opened the book of sticks. is not swallowing. is eating from the angel’s dream the only fish that can stop at nothing.

existence gospel

the quiet woman mothers a silence gone rogue

and names
her kid
to death

nigh

don’t talk to babies. write. write to be the first one there. the frostbitten woman sucking her thumb has all her teeth. walk once a week into the wrong bathroom. worry. bump around the house at night, noisemaker. a depressed elephant in a walrus graveyard. pull. pull from your habit forming past. be the bomb god’s yet to wear. surround with others the baseball bat signed by the last woman to mourn sleeping beauty. open your mouth then look at your son. call it photography. if spotted, be a monster.

on earth as it is in headgear

mother in mouse slippers sees a rainbow and burns the bread. fucking rainbow was hunger before someone tried to erase it. I am not god but I do have insomnia. mother can do in her madness what most can in sleep. father hollers at a soldier suffering from memory gain. I throw baby brother’s rattle over a moving tank.

count for the dead their black sheep.

generator

the baby was found, after the fire, alive and well in the oven. god showed his face until, again, the world made him hungry. at the time, the painter of babies was a baby herself. her brother had been dropped long ago by a man reaching for a foul ball.

the sweet tooth’s bible was putting blood on a napkin.

you want grief that is a seashell of grief.

–

here, ness:

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