kingsoftrain

Small thing, the world. A star burns itself on its health. What is this jawing. This forming a sound around the mouth in a mouth. Who wants to be here. Loneliness is always learning a longer word. Say it. Say it somewhere. All my children are in the same house right now. I don't know how today is gonna go. For hours, my son won't be with me. At this very speaking, he's asleep on my leg. His teeth the same teeth he's had in dreams. I can see them.

I shaved my head in a dream kept from me by my mother

My sighing twitchy brothers are dying of each other

There is a way for this to end

A crow 
on the moon
lasts 
forever

I got an email about having 70$
I was like

left
or left

I imagine it’s there

The unwarned 
loneliness

They’re going to take 
my son

into a room, moon

God makes a tiny phone then waits for it to die and we never hear from god again

If there is in my poem white space then I wasn’t drinking

My mother’s sadness is distracting to photos

Surgery means I am the only one who can position my son’s body not you not the fatherhand of god’s anti-touch

I was writing toward The Rose by Ariana Reines when the grief lightning of an unfound vein went bluely afield

They’re back, the bombed, their thenlife

I hold myself in the dark

That’s 
the whole
poem

You want a mirror, a god
of the anti
rare

Father, mother, a cry

( baby
shaped
things

Asterisk to the spider’s eager pageant, Jesus waits at three doors for his father to get out of surgery. Cops put in handcuffs an unshocked boy and lead him to a room made of rooms. Ask for the mother of anyone. Ask the cops for our love back. Our love of how they are captured dying on an earth of runaways. I drank in the dream then drank in the dream I was having. At least cursive looks like eating. Cough, wrist. Angel, burn your way through the keyboard of touch. I did no singing in this world. 

The childhood of my childhood

A cigarette lounging in a dropped hand on the grounds of an invisible cemetery

The funerals
thought held
for stones

I put a dog in a goddamn poem and a poet wrote me saying that dogs don’t do that. It wasn’t every dog. Let me drink. Let me be brotherless in Ohio cutting my hair with my wrists in a prisoner’s dream. Beauty and body sound the same to the dead. Don’t love me. Here is a story: I put a dog in the backseat of a bloodless car sneaking snow into heaven that once wouldn’t start so we pushed it past a sheep so still you said fuck that sheep picturing itself as a mother in the mirror of an assaulted angel. Probably. Write, say. There are beasts that like nothing. 

I know your son is dying but is your son dying in the next room. Touch is touch because we’re born asleep. I’m out of details. I thought I could drink myself into you caring about the poor. Invent time and god will say it already happened. I have everything once. I work on my vocabulary in a poem about snow. Fucking fucking snow. My brothers aren’t awake. That’s not loss.

Reading in code about disease-erased sadness, I left in a cornfield an epileptic no one liked. Deer and dog forgave Ohio its obsession with god’s manufactured patience. The horse that screamed scrame and my math teacher heard a glass of milk praying for my sister’s rib to break. We loved little. Doubled over orphans and weapons weapons made.