kingsoftrain

No newborn can reach existence.
Sleep knows memory
cannot fix
an eggshell.

( into a field 
  fled water 
  from the spine 
  of the lord )

Erections turn the stomach to salt.

I would cry for my mother.

I would ask my father
to cry for my mother.
I would cry for my father.

I would ask my father
to cry for his brothers.
I would cry for my sister 
who said god 
is a cigarette 
in the cosmos.

I would cry nailgun cry unkissed heels

I would cry for my brothers.
I would cry in other words thrice 
For myself.

I would cry on film for god for god on film

I would cry for the drink drinking that the drinking ends

I would cry brevity

Cry foreskin forecry

Cry rest
room rest
moon

I would cry for god all that 
All that having
to separate 
the naked from the naked.

I would cry for my children
Cry Genevieve

Cry Beverly

Cry name, knowing name
hears not

Cry ghost for the ghost
whose ghost
thinks dogs
are real

those dogs, with time

A squirrel eating a star in the mouth of god

gesture 2

It’s too easy to have what you’re born with. Touch implicates itself in the theft of miracle’s diary. I keep the idea long enough for beauty to interrupt. Asked by three people at once have I ever been drunk, I answer to something lower. An eye is a cigarette made of tears. If I miss a shot, or if a brother steals the ball, an uncle’s ankle explodes in two hells. No teeth, but we lost bitemarks on the reg. Our bruises had five thousand people turning in their own blood to hear the devil. Lord take my child while he is pretending to be the child of someone else. God, blink so often that image has nothing to stare at. Whatever creatures walk out of Eden we’ll leave them out.

gesture 1

The white crow of lost memory warns the wrong past. A baseball shrugs into my brother’s ribs. I fear Jesus, and weep for Adam. Make my knee in the ghost gold sea. 

House,
A light socket finds the first tooth of god.

Church, I am too old to imagine the waking hours.

Sleep, 
Being in the water 
when the song 
is heard.

A neighbor points me in the direction of himself as an amputee. Information isn’t my strong suit. Excess of angels, tyranny of nostalgia. I dug into a tree a grave for a rabbit’s foot. Talked year after year in an echo that had my children tapping out of televised fight events. Violence is a language that rewards godlike pronunciation. Everyone knows where they were when nothing encrypted the pathway to racism in the shell of finding its mother. My drinking keeps changing the age I started drinking. Jesus gets crucified so many times that a one-of-one pop-up book of god using for a pillow a doll based on death doesn’t arrive in time for the book burning. I am late to my life and the television longs to be frostbitten. The toys have no memory. Even less when they explode. 

Sleep’s house is a debt that denies three dawns. I changed my mind about ghosts. They are the tombstones of angels. My mind seduced a star that was alive. Sound can’t kill its brother if I am sucking on my cuts in a cornfield. Today I wrote a resignation letter in invisible blood and the wind slut-shamed touch. Sound has a shy daughter. Two sisters named Cain asked me to dream. 

I don’t have an opening line.
The godless 
Snow eaten
By a red
Dog was close.
Of the things my sadness 
Notices,
Your suicide
Is second
To your second
Suicide.
My blue 
Jokes
Deepen
Hair.
What I mean is 
The undead
Lack
Sorrow.
Wait, ghost.
Wait, Sylvie Mix.
A guy I knew in high-school
Was shot
By his son. I don’t think
It’s great
That I know
He had a son.
Go, ghost. A cut
On a thousand
Bods.