death
my way
of saying
goodbye
to god
–
had you lived
or enjoyed
amnesia…
eating behind the mirror’s back
it was all
hick lore
to me
a scratch
in scar’s
nakedness, a loss
of infancy
awarded
only
to the deaf
who dug up
the ears
of god
for nothing
more
than the sound
of depression
going blind
in the garden
of the hairdresser’s
hair
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I have some books, there…most recent is MOON tattoo, 114 pages, as such:
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(book preview on site is book entire)
poems, a few, from it:
[mien]
our forgetful
makers
hunting
elsewhere
–
[residua]
the hymn
in all its
cephalic
worry
has me thinking
bathrobe
while saying
statue / why
always
this dream
I join
others
to find
a small
body / death
had a spoiled
child
–
[moon tattoo]
birth, or god’s
way
of erasing
our memory…
this
more than you
will hurt
my neighbor’s
doll
subtitles, ghost
pollen / I sit
facing
my father
he strokes
a large
bumblebee…
the robot is a virgin.
the baby
it goes
from baby
to baby
with no
message.
–
I want your work to matter.
he says we are men
not because a raccoon
chased a bone
into the factory
of shadows.
he says it’s me
or the bag
of trash
and gives me
a knife.
he says before I was borned
we took
the same
bullet. he says mouth.
I kick
he says
in my sleep
and it puts
a belly button
on a bird
one
bird.
he says them animals
ain’t so wild
as a dog
in drag
and your mother
is the outside
world.
I want to say it is yes yes
puberty’s
painted
egg, the island
clock, the genitalia
of alarm…
I want to say it is orange
like bees
like
not all
the hymns
not all
condoms…
it puts me on my stomach
this grief
you have
for the switched
at death
–
god’s color has returned
–
the male
animals
in the grey
barn
knew
–
first
and what
would forgiveness
do?
my kids were never born. yours
they hide
from the number
of people
god
made.
when dead, I was not
a bird
yet
my mother
asks
what kind.
I can’t tell
by looking
if he’s seen
the future
or seen
the future
again. I strip
when my stomach
hurts.
I am old and nothing brings me joy.
I did
good things
but I
was asked.
drunk
outside
of a dog
shelter
I am likely
to remember
a library
pyros
love.
my uncle
he is probably
still
west of me
able
to open
a bottle
with the mouth
of a living
frog.
