birthplace 56 Touch is the brain’s last angel. Ohio erotica allows me to say things over and over. There’s only a name for this. The glacier my teeth are in. Shoebox from the listener’s dream.
birthplace 55 Mouse has gone to that bird place. Cry with me. Wasp, gasp. My son’s injuries keep him alive. In grade school, I wouldn’t use the restroom for fear I’d be seen wanting my hand to be seen. Touch is touch with nowhere to pray.
birthplace 54 Wrist, owl, rested vowel.
birthplace 53 describe not god but the photo-healed image that burned the book of your mother's hands
birthplace 52 God can't see all of us. Kill the animal yourself. The animal will be fine. Death doesn't eat. It's not dark inside or out. I tried to write a haiku. I tried to be a drunk. Beauty is other people. Sex education is a short film that Ohio uses to advertise reincarnation. God can't see all of us.
I drop my mother’s cup of fake blood as my father tries to find the movie scene that will give him his age. My thumb breaks in a past death. The mumbling of its break speaks a moral thing to the smallest body ever to be vividly isolated. I am hearing all of this through an eggshell that mom says belongs to the angel best known for keeping quiet about skin. Under my brother’s shirt there crawls a wasp that smells like god. None of the blood can be saved.
birthplace 51 My sister says she looks good today. I tell her I don’t know when I will write this. The moonshine is asleep. I worry it might lamb itself out of helping me sell photos to god. Each stage of touch is abandoned.
birthplace 50 The more internal the life, the longer the past. A velvet cricket.
birthplace 49 My mouth was born in a mouth that remembered you. There never was a god, says god. I know you want me to be happy. Nyquil, moonshine. Touch wants to be a word and sleep wants to be a language. Our short memory keeps dogs alive. The sea is looking for pain's childhood.
birthplace 48 I never did write that line. God cried for a year. For what seemed like god.
