Bats lose their teeth over sister bitemark. Blue here and there skips an apple. The bird can’t get out of the lake.
Ask the dark the outside gets nothing Mad about bread I broke my birthmark There was no bomb A paper doll was shopping online for a free spider’s web Our perfect blood perfect bomb weather
vi. Two thoughts had by Ohio surgeons: The crow that warns you of the next, but not of the crow after. The cow’s head there is for every cow. vii. Surgeries provided outside of Ohio: Cigarette smoke inside the egg.
Pain notes March 2023 through beginning June 2023, as written when written ~ I love meaninglessness. I don't think I'll ever forgive this life for steering my writing away from emptiness. I didn't think my identity was so fragile. Three months of not being myself at home, at work, in self. I mean, moments, sure. And I've done the work of years that gives me an hour here and there, but jeesh. I would say humbling, but pain and dependence are unearned lessons. It's just, subtracting. From house to hotel to the day-by-day avoidance of no vacancy. So glad to have those around me who check-in like they own property. Pain is exhausting. I can sense my sleep sleeping without me. It's an odd placement of spirit, for sure. And it feels deserved. Like, my body has agreed to something because it knows something I don't. About me. Pain replaces time. I travel only the world that an hour leaves unmapped. I count backward from a number I forget to choose. My body doesn't work. These are some fucked-up sheep. Pain as supply in a dollhouse too big. I have to settle for what my hand lands on and for what lands on my hand. Sleep is a hellscape. Comfort has no maker. I was yesterday an urgent child drawing a spacecraft and on the spacecraft I placed a machine that was meant to put blood in a mountain. I couldn’t make it work. I've always had trouble sleeping, but damn...pain is a new kind of awake. It's like you're trying to sleep for two people who hate each other, but who've bonded on their dislike of you. I feel like the third wheel given to a god trying to reinvent the first. Hell not existing is an especially cold fact when pain puts you in it. Ah, well. Touch is touch recording what it hears. Sleep can wait. But not like a mirror waits. One day you don't have any forever thing wrong with your body, and the next, you do. Not true of course. The soul and the ghost can only distract each other for so long before they threeway your non-existence. But I used to look at photos as if they could look back. Maybe we can't sleep because sleep covers for death. I don't need an alibi. I need to know who I was with. Late pain makes one childlike. You feel you've done something, in a place you didn't belong. And now belonging has come for its name. And you utter what you know, and are shown the nothing you thought was more deeply buried. And you start your own belief, right at the moment you tire from trying to make others believe. There are no before-and-after photos of god. ~~
iv. At night, the sound of a lawnmower. The black grass by morning gone v. I worry the piano will hear my baby. You keep having hands.
Image is nothing more than the memory that our destroyers strip to. I had an animal that was naked in dog years. Bitemark speaks birthmark. Keep amnesia young.
I hate this city and its two sold houses. Every third angel is just a baby eating paper and being healthy for too long. Pain has a doorbell that turns blue when touched and another that turns blue when not. The last time you had sex this caterpillar had a ribcage. I don't always die. Sleep is the ghost of waiting.
Under the moon of a flat earth, they’re putting pills in baseballs. We’ve our choice of police siren. My Ohio horse could be your Ohio deer. We could be resurrected more than once to identify a child’s body. There is a language image does not know. Words sound different in hell.
~ Lightning and earthquake feuding in an untouched doom where two angels, birthmark and bitemark, still dream of killing their tattooed sons. I know this place. Place is a bomb that other bombs find. ~ The tattooed sons are in love. Son bitemark doesn’t have a tongue; birthmark does all the ironing. Their dead child speaks to them through a fishhook that is always hot. ~ Faith is an eating disorder. Mothers faint in threes. I teach my brothers to suck in their stomachs and a junkyard refrigerator becomes our clock. We smell like a dead child. We smell blank. We search online for images of hands and for the word missingness. Flies made of wind and glass show us to our food. Our eyes go without. ~ Our invaders had no language. Your mother was suicidal until she told you how moved she was by her own birth. The needle had its moment of recognition. A fetus opened its mouth in a paint can. Replacement can be a city. But here it’s a form destroyed for being described. ~ So many dead bodies, and no one has died. City of the predicted present. The sons count hoofprints left on a whale. ~
a spider tapping on a fingernail tooth tooth come to the glass
kingsoftrain 