that is, of course, too many books
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/acolyteroad
~
somewhat recent:
~
[language]
word gets around
the schoolyard
pretty quick
that my father
drove his body
off a cliff
so god
would have a nail
hot enough
to touch.
I have a tooth
can make it
snow.
~
[small ones]
loss goes unnoticed.
I made for you
a scarecrow
from the textbook
violence
of a midwestern
poltergeist
as lightning
took a step
from the baby
I crawled
beside.
be
not memorably
young.
~
[mothership]
strays
in orange
bless
the brains
they bless
the trash…
–
what nothing
you haven’t
seen
–
the hand-me-down
travel
sickness
that cocoons
in some
what cottons
to others
–
dryness
the money
of angels
~
[the end of backstory]
he drops a knife in her lap and calls her a butcher. it is beyond cute
the way his stomach
becomes
a third
fist. her cigarette
is a portal
takes her
to the baby
can suck
the air
from a room.
far be it from you
to be cleared
by god
of invisibility…
part of the curse
is the lifting
of curse, the ability
to lift
home
from the house
of already
where
to save
a chicken
from its head
the boy
who once
drilled
for crow
has now
fashioned
from a license
plate
a crude
guillotine…
not now, memory, I am this close
to conjuring
the shape
of the man
whose son
pulled
from a bathroom
stall
my daughter
to ask
was she done
growing
a tail
making book covers
in the nude
my brother
my higher
brother
is on
about
some late
film
performance
by a woman
he says
has inspired him
to take a shit
on a baby
in a pick-up
truck
and to drive
the truck and to call his route
the border
of the last
miracle
or we can call it
something else
I don’t think
he knows
really
I am just
something saddened
by sorrow, a frog
aware
of caves, as if god’s
creatures
were a result
of god
imagining
what she’d not
seen
scatter…
longhand
the syringe
of poor
colossi,
wrists
both suicide
attempt
and apologue:
I love
brother
for how
he’d split
himself
into outside
time
and inside
time
that he might
tell
a door
fuck-off
or a dreaming
hieroglyph
his tale
the band-aid
and the risen
ant
god
my path
to meaning
nothing
–
she had a sock drawer and a pair of secret hands
the hardest time
with houses
–
what if the end stops coming
–
what if
from one cannibal to another
it is extra
this bone
from the horse
Moon
ate
we indeed
are deaf
from going
nude
the floor is writing on the earth
it is better
than having
roaches
childbirth
comes to
in a bat
dying
in a pillowcase
for what
the weeping
flightplan
of a drunk
stork…
what tree cannot reach
mother scratches
with a broom
yarn
disappears
and blood
shows
its hand
–
homesickness
is what curls
in a mother’s
foot, her toes
–
having babies
for the color
white, this boy
–
he comes
came
–
compass
the thumbless
orphan
of the body
I would rather
be
punching bag
than funhouse
in the hour
of things
or a thing
for hours…
–
I am not silent
but did
from my father
inherit
the alphabet
most women
use
–
we meet
the same
beginning, recall
–
memory
had its mind
made up
there is only one creature
doesn’t know
how long it had
to destroy
the world
as an uncle
can enter
any garage
and sense
the absence
of a nailgun
so
can a holy man
prepare
a meal
in the missing
church
kingsoftrain 