that suicide
be
a medical
procedure
for the layman
in
you. that evac
be exodus.
I was interviewed by poet, more than poet, Sarah Marcus (http://sarahannmarcus.com/) of Gazing Grain Press, here:
Gazing Grain Press has, does, and is good works. See:
when her mouth arrives, it arrives in pain. what gets around to my brother is that after her fire was dipped in hell she tried to drown her trigger finger. I make a mental list of the oddest things that stick to my body. my hands come from two camps of how to count the devil’s teeth. food is the voice of god but it goes right through me.
it is not suicide to bomb god’s shadow. I am the dot my father calls button. my son’s mind would’ve given oxygen too many places to go. his body happened overnight.
a baby screams because it doesn’t know that anything is wrong.
the wind has no past.
when my brother kicks, my mother says
hands off
he’s getting
a haircut.
after seeing god, my brother climbed a tree and wouldn’t come down. he thought himself serious but then had to piss. I took off my pants and made him swear. it was dark or no one looked.
–
I carry the larger-than-child child up steps smaller than my feet.
–
in grade school, a particular person would ask me what my hair was made of. over time, I have come to call that person people.
–
on the day I hit my head and start to walk, my son swallows the harm there isn’t in letting god talk.
–
the cat is all the instruction one needs to kill it. perfect, it seems to care that suicide is traceable.
beaten
as it was
beyond
anonymity
it had
no choice
but to hear
from birth
whose face
it had.
mother is down to almost nothing. recognition
is not
so fast.
the prodigal son of simplicity
–
the pill popper’s
demographic
–
the mouth
as it keeps
the face
from parting
–
the canyon
of where
not
to snort
the ashes
of risen
sheep
–
paper
and the cup
it’s being
the better part
of isolation
fact checking
his father’s
loneliness
outside the garage door
of a cement building
I break no bread
with the silence
of my nose
what a clown
–
the wound’s depth
leads me
to believe
in a part
of my father’s
leg
I didn’t know
I had
–
mother’s pain
is other
pets, the devil
is the devil
forever
–
this egg on my face
is from the eye
of yours
that hatched
