Your mother sleeps to mourn the secret ghost of your death
Horse
has its blurry
life
The killing, the movies, the drinking. A spotlight stolen by a man in a deer costume. My son saying he wants to live at home until his brother dies. God’s dream, too small.
/
rocks have the softest shadows, 237 pages
poems, Dec 2020
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untouched in the capital of soon, 187 pages
poems, Sept 2021
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blood to bathe us in its blue past, 217 pages
poems new and selected, May 2022
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apartures, 125 pages
poems, January 2023
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deer as permission to die in ohio, 43 poems
chapbook, April 2023
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naked in dog years, 55 pages
April 2024
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57
Letters to Ethan Hawke, or I wanted to stop saying god
letters 1-57
August 2024
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The Crow's Book of Wrists, 193 pages
August 2024
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angel tantrum, 171 pages
April 2025
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Eden created time so Eve could end god’s suffering. I only worry about my son’s death because I can’t leave his dying to others. That’s the alcohol being silent. Watching is just seeing a cyclops cry. Fuck that kid, is what you’re saying. Skin is the real winner. The bone has a bone’s name.
There is no god left for god to impress. At night I grow in my arm an arm for my son. My dream lasts for three days. An animal forgetting to drink. A perfect stick crying itself white in a hell of dog heads. Sex doesn’t know what this poem is about. Eating is a shape death knows to eat around. Heaven only looks abandoned. Imagine a shooting range. Not that one.
A deer
helps lightning
run
from a ghost
A deer helps lightning run from a ghost
I have a gun
but the world is empty
I am still smaller than the god of my aim
Wait
Regret
has a moth
to bury
In an emptiness designed by no one
tried
to print
touch
My knees pray to sugar. I name my sadness after a mountain. Inside the mountain a flower bends to impress worship. No more poems about drinking. No more singsong scarring in the baths I take to burn myself. In a video store a preacher falls asleep emptying the late bibles of my belief. You can’t tell because of the starfish on his face, but that’s Jesus. So what if I yell at a friend in the throes of soft cock capitalism. Oh moon of blank want. I eat myself out to make my brothers laugh. Oh scarce feast of intimacy. My cousin’s band has the best name ever. Everyone is alive. Let’s get high and love our moms.
designed the afterlife designed the afterlife of missing children
designed the dream designed its biological dream
kingsoftrain 