There are so many ways to drink and so many paths to your uncle sleeping in the second to last car on earth. Echo trails off to become a widowed expert on the reinterpreted dreams of its unmade phone. Eels translate for lightning. Children injure themselves in one vehicle accidents. In their small lives I hope their presence has understood an immoveable god. You keep a little water in the lungs of the doll.
my dear Ethel Cain poems were written to a void I believed in not to the abyss of past & present deepfake humanness & they started bc I miswrote Ethan Hawke in a word doc so for my record and the record none of that shit done under and in their real name then or now was or is ok
and I am going to keep them where they are, addressing the world as it wasn't
etc
I was suicidal for years in my mother’s field of melancholy jellyfish. Our past changes the sex of the wrong person. Even time believes it’s god’s addiction to time.
is there maybe
a way
to come back
from my living
a rare
disorder
wrapped
in a cigarette
safe
sad
a skin cell
dead
to the face
of god
an angel
designed
by an angel
a baby
walking
too early
an egg
cracked
in a star
please
can we put
in our arms, that
(something small
(that walked
AI ruins reincarnation. I have tried to be seen as blue without the choking. My son looks for his won body. His own. Sex breaks three lightbulbs in the chickenhouse. I first thought an erection meant something was trying to get in. I stayed up nights longing for the swimmer’s re-kissed ears. Is your mom happy? A ghost knows where it is by snowfall and by crushed cigarette. My dad was crying and I had to pretend I hadn’t sat on the arm of the couch weird. My son bites his arm then presses a button on his speech device that erases the words from a prayer uttered in a time machine. I didn’t kill myself bc I never did.
Two wasps spooning in puberty’s microscopic dream
A newborn’s eye as a moth
of blood
Glass of milk
afraid of god
Adam makes bread for his sons. A mosquito collects mosquitoes from Eden. Everyone I talk to knows my mother. Shy x-ray. Shy tadpole. Brain a headlight packed in snow. Sorrow is sadness that believes in the future. This is what I thought my blood was doing. The afterdeer of it all. So what. So what, angel. Your mime my abuser.
Churchbell, fetus, ceiling fan. A frog hops out of my brother’s dream and lives instantly. Seven men pull a child in all different directions out of a car perfectly owned by their wrecked father. If you don’t sleep, your body will remain too crooked to crucify. Many of my poems are not called cleaning my son’s back. Here we are.
I come to in the middle of eating. I am making a sound that drags an ear through the stomach of an angel. My sons catch fish with silence. My daughter sings them to a cricket left in a human mirror. By the time our loneliness reaches god, we’ve been created.
for Andrei Tarkovsky
It takes three ghosts to end the present. Outside it smells like not touching you. I don’t go anywhere without my bomb. There’s no place on earth on earth. I don’t take photographs I can look at. My body has never been a body to your quieter mother. I drink myself into walking. Three ghosts eat the mouth of an angel from the back of the very spider that called god with a handprint into hand’s only dream. There a tooth, and trainsets. Inside the movie there are two rules. We’re alone. You can’t miss it. Don’t look at photographs that answer to image.
kingsoftrain 