his baby is wailing in its crib for its mother and he mans you up for a cigarette and blows on the baby’s face and somewhere you yourself have stopped crying as you are pulled from a pile of leaves by two people made of smoke
we wore clothes as an apology for being nearby. a door was a door. a ghost was a ghost and a door. the house was possible. its rooms were not. baby was a body spat from the mouth of any creature dreaming of a bathtub. I got this lifejacket from a scarecrow. said the redheaded tooth fairy.
and in the spacecraft where a mother diapers the doll that makes her fat there plays the voice of god asking for a film crew none will miss
lonelier than creation, I have nothing on trauma. genetically speaking, I don’t think anybody expected us to spend so much time on one idea. this open umbrella. ghost at the keyboard.
a body to dry my blood. some god
seeing me
as a person…
how quickly birth gets old.
praying he’ll see again them cows of lake suicide, the handcuffed frog shepherd
prays he’ll see again them cows of lake suicide
tree: the unbathed statue of your screaming
–
shade: the folder of my clothes
outside the bathroom’s designer absence, our melancholy impressed by symbolism, we form
a line
we put a museum on the moon. I had all my dreams at once. a mouse was wrapped in a washcloth then crushed with the songbook of baby hairless. fire treats grass like fire.
kingsoftrain 