the boy
in another
language
pays
attention
light
marks again
its territory
grief beds sorrow, sorrow’s
eggs
mostly
hatch
dream only
of discovered
things
I am with my wife and son and we are drinking from the shell of a turtle a soup the locals use to dilute a rain’s grief. I kind of know that something bad is going to happen to both twins. my wife is looking for a wheelchair and then for a place to hide it. my son is saying grace in the only spot he’ll ever be. some of his white pills turn blue as a laugh track denies three times the thunder’s loss.
/ barn etiquette. a rabbit a volcano’s dove.
~
*note, documentation purposes only- here is an email I sent this morning in regards to the dream that had me make the dream above
Glad you’re feeling better! I think I’m okay, I have to start sleeping, jesus. Kind of feel underwater. But it’s better than dreaming about someone beating on you and Timmy in France. I’ll call on Friday to refill my prescriptions for sure. Oh man, Timmy is hilarious. I remember one of the traits they said he’d be missing was humor. Um, not applicable. I guess he can’t escape being surrounded. Come hither, Wednesday.
Love and here,
thru September 5th, Lulu is offering 25% off all print books with coupon code of MORE4YOU
here, are mine:
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/acolyteroad
and here, a fuckload, from:
[notes for stimuli]
I start my sentences
like this:
the thing is.
thing is
my son
like yours
is dying. thing is
I was told
by god
to be a man.
I love you all.
I love
but start a fight
with someone
I’ve never met
over what
a fucking
poverty
no one
talks to
not
in years.
one must apple boldly in a cornfield of rust.
baby clotheshorse
eats baby
litmus.
taste
keeps my tongue
in the dark.
~
[daughteresque]
what would she ask
sadness
that old blindfold
from the future
how did you
get old, how
did my father
eat
and eat
at the same
time
perhaps
you’ve seen it
the mask
that took
my face
~
[motheresque]
she can’t stop herself
from knowing
the fleas
are burning
what with
her passionless
baby
its biological
god
~
[breakneck]
i.
some dog is humping the ghost-mourned balloon as mother does her thing in the body of big boy bite mark
ii.
it won’t come back from seeing father go ace on a bag of flour
the crow
if truly
crow
~
[from the book of waiting]
what is it
dissolves
in the mother’s
foreseeable
presence?
faith
a flashback
god
is having.
~
[trick blood]
the bottle takes what it can from the baby’s mouth. the stirring motion delivered to the hands of a misfit prophet. the knowledge of my father’s people that god is too old of a lover to get satan’s attention. the silence my mother kept quiet for. the second afterlife of a single breast.
~
[pocket]
I am kicking myself over the surprise my brain ruined. nearby, a man misremembers his trip to heaven while a woman blames herself for making it doubly hard to leave. the size of my death is the size of any deer would die for a sugarcube. my father can’t find what he’s wearing that isn’t his. mother she is off buying foods that share a ghost. I call to my sister but know openly she hasn’t been deaf from the day god believed her legs were part frog. I have not heard of the spoon that has a past. something in my stomach wants to see a star.
~
[extremity]
the virgin boy is waiting for it to dry, it
being
the puppet’s
toothbrush. his lover
a practitioner
of moral sadness
knows the body as a representation
of surgeries none perform
and the future
as historically
inaccurate. where we’ve met before
I’ve narrowed down
to isolation. was there I last lost mother
with her hacksaw and chair
dreamily approaching
a tire swing
as if the human voice
on any land
letting go
of god
could raise
a tree.
~
[On contact]
hold kitten
like a rifle. pop
a paper sack
at your father’s
ear. ah, your father
who was made to kneel
for two
maybe three
things
(god, shrapnel) a flying saucer
from the wreckage of his church
~
[On sex]
a ghost
in love
with a paintbrush
this ankle
not
from memory
~
[On birthmarks]
and the glacial
pace
of god
~
[ascetic]
do not open
until
I am born
this love letter
to the unreadable
child
who spoke
for god
to god
in poem
the lesser
pity
do
tell my brother
if he has not
yet
wrapped himself
in police
tape
that lightning
above a snowplow
puts a creature
on the roof
~
[existence gospel]
the quiet woman mothers a silence gone rogue
and names
her kid
to death
~
[lookers]
to slow the scarring of god, the man spits into a can plucked from the river that washed his hair.
to hasten
the woman
shaves
her mirror’s
head.
~
[the door to the museum’s gift shop]
I was alone
with the baby
when the baby
said god
the nude’s failure to stay awake in a laundromat. the suicide of the copycat toddler. nine types of catfish. a worm’s tongue. god’s last name. the orphan’s timekiller.
I was a doorstep baby and brother a treehouse.
moon of the injured. moon of the blind.
to the man whose face can do things mine cannot, I give my son.
silence has no creator. pictures
of god
don’t sell.
gender,
a stoned woman
for every
crucified
man / nostalgia,
a baby
undetected
by the mother
we see
acolytes of the short leash, light
has more
to say
than god / think of me
angel
as a hand
from a haunted
house
