kingsoftrain

God didn’t think
he would live.

I came here to be mean to you.

Most of what is seen is the porn of the clothed.

I lift my head and a puppet performs surgery on a weak baby.

Try, love, 
with a cigarette
to perfect
fatigue.

A deer is a crow raised by a headlight.

No one
died
the bomb
is miracle’s 
little
hiccup.

The only reason I can write about a bomb is because I have a subscription to Amazon.

For your mother
I miss
my mom.

When you’re a good person

pay attention
to your kids.

I don’t know what the body means. Terrifying. There is stuff in my stomach right now 
and your parents won’t publish an imperfect line about nostalgia.

An angel eats paper three times and a doll sets 
fake fire
fake fire to…

An angel, when you’re sad, is an angel.

Mother means
your mom
was here.

It’s not everyday
I want
to die.

A star is a cigarette blinking inside of an unnoticed tree.

Pain disproves god. We could go

on forever.

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 in the morning my children can eat.

Dearest deep panic machine, god isn’t for the detail-oriented. The first loneliness is the most fun. We say melancholy while smoking in a cemetery because no one actually died here. Dies. I flapped my arms while painting and saw the angel of animatronic suicide. Death and trash. The far loneliness of being present. Of unchecked repetitions. In a poem about my arm a star became jealous of a cigarette burn.

I tell my children 
for years 
no one 
remembers me 

In Ohio we choose the car
based on the deer 
it was made for 

I tell you what an angel 
tells god 

We are too drunk 
to write
this poem

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. 

Abel wanted Cain’s collection of crickets.

Beyond that, I name
in Ohio
things.

Beyond that, 
my brothers
call arm
both arm
and stick.

We all stopped reading on the same day. A suicidal boy entered heaven holding his father's cricket-sized coffins. The angel of breathing raked leaves from one dream into another. Horse, deer, handprint. I slept near the hair of my listening son.

Satan built a machine that pulled bullets into hell but so many kids lived that god noticed. The date of this poem is weakness. The date of this poem is the daughters of fathers in ICE drew each on their right knee a face and a blue ghost released its chokehold on breathing. Here is the value of my body if I believe in christ. Here is an angel made from a cop tired of not beating a person. My son is sick in a past that hallucinates brief futures might the illusion of miracle settle on which mother to heal. The date of this poem is drinking is easy because everyone can help you. All bellies are moonmad. Polish the empty eating of humane absence.