kingsoftrain

Asterisk to the spider’s eager pageant, Jesus waits at three doors for his father to get out of surgery. Cops put in handcuffs an unshocked boy and lead him to a room made of rooms. Ask for the mother of anyone. Ask the cops for our love back. Our love of how they are captured dying on an earth of runaways. I drank in the dream then drank in the dream I was having. At least cursive looks like eating. Cough, wrist. Angel, burn your way through the keyboard of touch. I did no singing in this world. 

The childhood of my childhood

A cigarette lounging in a dropped hand on the grounds of an invisible cemetery

The funerals
thought held
for stones

I put a dog in a goddamn poem and a poet wrote me saying that dogs don’t do that. It wasn’t every dog. Let me drink. Let me be brotherless in Ohio cutting my hair with my wrists in a prisoner’s dream. Beauty and body sound the same to the dead. Don’t love me. Here is a story: I put a dog in the backseat of a bloodless car sneaking snow into heaven that once wouldn’t start so we pushed it past a sheep so still you said fuck that sheep picturing itself as a mother in the mirror of an assaulted angel. Probably. Write, say. There are beasts that like nothing. 

I know your son is dying but is your son dying in the next room. Touch is touch because we’re born asleep. I’m out of details. I thought I could drink myself into you caring about the poor. Invent time and god will say it already happened. I have everything once. I work on my vocabulary in a poem about snow. Fucking fucking snow. My brothers aren’t awake. That’s not loss.

Reading in code about disease-erased sadness, I left in a cornfield an epileptic no one liked. Deer and dog forgave Ohio its obsession with god’s manufactured patience. The horse that screamed scrame and my math teacher heard a glass of milk praying for my sister’s rib to break. We loved little. Doubled over orphans and weapons weapons made.

I am so unhealthy and so ugly that I go online to find images of the bugs that brush her hair. You could be dying, and I’d be impressed by an angel. I don’t know what I am to autofiction nor what autofiction is to a mother who puts her child underwater to keep it from the rain. I dare you to be godless enough to convince god there are gods aplenty. My shadow buys a tattoo with a watermark. None of my children own a gun. I think there were two tombs. A world where that’s more funny than sad. Blood, bread, beast. The cow’s communion of ghost milk. If I drink it’s to the cigarette that mutes my strangulation’s alarm. So late was blue to being a color, ah. Everything gets away.  

A mournfully urgent child in the darkroom of our undeveloped nakedness

In one word
Describe time