the dollhouse needs a second bathroom and those responsible for the film I’m watching have nowhere to hang the astronaut
as violence
might recall
nothing’s
gospel, I wear
a mask
and poke
your baby’s
eye-
forget beauty, ah
/ the description of a monk in the notebook of a nun
my 7 year old son fell out of his wheelchair yesterday. somehow managed to press the buckle hard enough. he’s okay, he’s okay. his mother lifted him unmoving from the hardwood. she brushed his hair, checked his head, ran her eyes and hands over his body, had him stretch and stand to assess pain. he didn’t seem to think anything had happened- hey mom, you okay, did you fall or something? but I have this question. can I, can we, negotiate yet another new world? I know the answer of course. as does my son. so many, lately, so proud of their one piece puzzle.
memory selects its future and trauma stops to eat. we are in the Ohio of dieting apparitions. oh, some cigarette made to last. a buried joystick.
it comes up in conversation how his dogs, blowjob and retard, were killed during a bout of baby-proofing. biters both; like mirror their mother. she is only god in that we sent her a son. he says this, and also this: the act of swimming is a creature that comes to my knees. we bring him the raccoon. no raccoon, no moon.
two birthmarks
one
temporary, one
invisible-
when god
was young
angel: I know
my son’s
disease
is lower
than pork, that suicide
means god
has a say
in how
we’re prepared…
also, that above
the lake
in which
my father
sees
a strange
fish
there flies
a burning
bird
