a tacklebox in a prison yard
a wasp
from scarecrow’s
childhood, also
nostalgia
the forgetful native
indigenous
to absence
I watched television for three hours then went outside for what seemed like three more.
I’ve been feeding the kid in different areas of the house.
falling asleep is forgetting to eat.
the naked mailman
he didn’t die
after all.
the church has begun to remember the world.
melancholy has its own mosquito.
yesterday, the kid wheeled himself in front of the fan and opened his mouth.
things burn where they land.
I wasn’t born but have to see for myself.
I don’t know how to feel bad for people anymore. I’m 40 now but grew old near some woods that had in them a creature whose name came outta nowhere. it brought babies to those close to me to have them raised on stories of missing children and by the one movie we were allowed to watch. not since stone number three have I been a spitter.
our prayers go only so far
in marking
hypnosis
we say infant when two things at once warn a symbol
we call it bird
what was done
to the bird
we plate crows from black market microwaves
burn a wheelchair
to mow
the lawn
afraid of its shadow in a previous life. the drowning of nothing’s
orgasmic
child.
hunger my contraceptive
blood
my wristwatch
someone to boil
the mannequin’s
pacifier
for Mary Ann
there are more dolls
than people
remember, daughter, our jack-in-the-box
how it studied
all kinds
of music?
pain is religious
grief
is not
the phantom butcher hides another pregnancy test
–
an egg reminds me to bathe my teeth
death makes two beds
father and son give food a choice
mother mothers moth and math
I count
for a cannibal
brother’s
bugbites
nowhere to go to have stillness removed
kingsoftrain 