The weight I put on in your absence. Who I mean in writing ‘your’. It felt good today to be sad about something more normal. Soap carvings in the window of a neighbor of some future fruit they’ll know, I won’t, to miss.
We had over two hundred children and gave the same name to each. We were both impossible and lazy. Bedtimes, fuck me, were harder than funerals. Sometimes a story would go around nearby about Jesus pretending to put his dad in his phone and we could almost see it. No one died waiting to be the first.
About two weeks now working from home. This feels the calm before the storm, or the storm before the black hole. I don’t want my kids to get sick. I am worried about supplies, not the actual reserve, but the perception that there is no supply which will turn some into ghosts haunted by desperation. I so hope that most are too weak to hold steady their guns. People will steal absence before conceding that what is there is for everyone. If we were vacant, previously, what does that hold for the future of nothing left?
Moods for screenplay:
It is always just before the sadness that I stop brushing my teeth
It is always just before the sadness that I stop brushing my teeth
It is always just before the sadness that I stop brushing my teeth
It is always just before the sadness that I stop brushing my teeth
It is always just before the sadness that I stop brushing my teeth
It is always just before the sadness that I stop brushing my teeth
It is always just before the sadness that I stop brushing my teeth
It is always just before the sadness that I stop brushing my teeth
It is always just before the sadness that I stop brushing my teeth
It is always just before the sadness that I stop brushing my teeth
It is always just before the sadness that I stop brushing my teeth
Small again
the star is little
Most boys in Ohio have carried that rare dog that can worry about growing old into a store that only accepts prize money. Ohio can’t be everywhere. A hole falls out of the wind and the abuse stops.
Ohio’s underwater cure for hiccups:
how sorry
I am
that ghost
is bored
swim
in a way
that says
Lone high, Ohio:
stars, I guess
and a trapdoor
for a certain
kind
of turtle
and stars
for sure
In The Field Between Us
Molly McCully Brown + Susannah Nevison
Persea Books, 2020
~
It is possible our maker knows we are makerless. What can we do? Pair up, perhaps. Read outwardly, together, this In The Field Between Us, placed so mortally within by poets Molly McCully Brown and Susannah Nevison. Look, I have wanted to write you. But instead I cup my hands by holding this book while elsewhere I clay and call inside its impression of response. Oh body, with your origin stories for mirrors. Oh eye, with your cut of arrival’s winnings. I was wrong to think correspondence would turn one lonely. Here, in a verse predating what is both former and latter, are two as two bringing transport to a standstill. Should I go on? Can I? How pure and wrecked can language be? I can’t say, but start here. There are tools used in…
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Moods for nigh:
Sipped from worship, a mother will hide in her throat the lost paw of thirst. How long are we? No one says loss anymore.
kingsoftrain 