this story again
my flat
brother
on his bike
with baby possums
eight of them
under his ballcap-
the mothered vehicle
of home, the doubled
kindness
of road
and kill-
how taken
from heaven
we lived
newborn
with back pain.
(the cigarette that takes the pulse of our ghost)
it is raining
on the feet of god
so, some new things. restless or reckless. I’m the terrible person that has probably already told you, or asked. it’s okay. I had this fear as a child that my belly button was the size of an eye for a reason.
I. {isacoustic*}
so, yeah, this small thing called {isacoustic*} is here https://isacoustic.wordpress.com/ and by being here I mean it is moving and if you know someone who is still or if that someone is you, please go there with love and leave some or send some. I am stoked by the work that is there, that has been offered, and I am trying not be light about it. also, submissions are open always and can be sent to: isacousticsubmissions@gmail.com / send 3-7 in the body of the email or docx, etc…payment for unsolicited work is 15$ unless otherwise negotiated…contributors also receive one copy of the self-published journal they appear…
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flyless wall. box of baby clothes
in an empty dream
so famously
daughter
she is too young
to smoke
–
her silence
in the shorthand
of my mouth
remains
born
–
there is no dark doorknob that ain’t the fist of her brother, no
madwoman
boiling
a deaf
snake
–
she takes it outside
her made-up song
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~~~~
some recent writings:
[ideations]
the elderly
our unpraised
orphans
with healed
and self-taught
toys
~~~~
cancer is a pop gun and when I say missing I mean her body was seen by the lonely / her body / was having children but only those / we’d seen / in photos / I mean bus
of a christian
swim team
~~~~
when cooking, mama says she is burning the uniform of the country I was dragged through. she knows better than to come from rib. cheek, maybe. or fishhook.
~~~~
scar to my wound, this man believes in god. the last thing I learn is what I know. Franz Wright’s final book is called The Toy Throne. I understand this man when…
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like an invisible woman born with a glass eye, he will (hymn) that love is his mother now and he will not hymn that love is a microscope courting the lost look of a barium drinker and he will not hymn bombs and he will not hymn that silence is merely a father’s diary of absence and he will not hymn the names of the anonymously lighthearted and he will not hymn the drive-ins frequented by your nonimmigrant god and he will (hymn) further that her blood be a flagless ghost inside any body not placed on a blown off door
kingsoftrain 