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.
[stage presence]
on the life of his mother
loneliness
was the spell
he could not
recall
[the entertainment]
from ear to god-bitten ear
you
are poison.
in my youth
I was quiet.
there, I said it.
the food is not a dream
but here it comes.
[god muscle]
when dressing the disabled child in front of family
my language
is often
the one
I use
[themes for shadow]
when toothpick young you see a snake go mad with second nature and a sponge dragging your mother through nothing’s data
[gauze]
the boy’s mother is biting off less than he can chew. her insomnia
has put her inside a worm
her body
tries
to fill. her milky eyed
–
husband
revs a tow truck
to death
in a heavy fog. it is possible, humanly
–
possible
–
there’s nothing
to see here. that her god
–
is, in a sense,
seizure activity
in the boy’s
spirit
–
animal.
[divide]
tired of mom touching its food, the baby comes early. we call this moment the buzzard’s injured adoration of a surplus crow.
–
last supper, I see only men.
the anxious god of my brother’s mirror
said
to me
trees
don’t grow
on trees.
it can’t all be nonsense.
shoes are being made
for the born.
no one
was fooled
by your
suicide. more and more
I am more
alone
than the baby
machine. we touch
touch
via
[On devastation]
brother, there’s not a cigarette
on earth
that you
can surprise
[On my father being gay]
a crow
born inside
a footstep
is passing
for dark
I play my father as a man terrified I’ll return
no trick to being poor.
the beauty of our entire football team
sleeping
with the same
person
equals
that of mother
saying
that she can feel
god’s head
touching
every hair
on hers. I can hear
my dreams
over
the soundman’s
perfect
fly
bursting
in my brother’s
ear. never
did I have
an idea
come
to me.
I wouldn’t worry. I myself didn’t walk until I’d put everything on the floor in my mouth. even then, my right leg would sometimes fill with my left. dad would warn me about bumping my head and mom would remind me to make him hungry. anyway, I told your kid I don’t know how to read but the truth is reading makes me want to see two women fight. I blame my brother. some people have the attention span of satan.
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.
you’re part of a story you don’t have to tell.
the animals that took your feet are dead now.
my boy
pushed your boy
into something
we thought
we’d outgrow.
mittens on
it’s time
to eat.
stick people
their hands
are lonely
at the same
time
–
in my son’s stomach
is something
from your seashell
collection
no matter how much I touch him
he’ll be touched
more, it is not real
–
but it is
the christ
balloon
