as if god had poured oil
on an egg
about to hatch
I was up all night
sleeping
like my mother
before me
whose future
went on
forever
and I saw
again
the temple
of that hellish
artifact
from the first
suicide
yours
inspired
food
prepares
in me
a faith
–
a wasp attends its own crucifixion
–
in an area known for being receptive to memory
the boy
drops
cock
–
any advance
on god
please praise
remotely
prayer
dedicates
for god
his time
to memoir.
fiction is the blood of a short person
spilling from a tall.
I enter again the room of the screaming man
who was screaming
when I left.
silence is par for the quiet.
dad says we live on a rock from god’s garden of near death experiences.
says throw a fucking baseball.
–
I could not see through my father
so I put my hand there
and it became a baby
with all its fingers
–
I was not raised by scarecrows.
had a toy that answered to wolves.
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.
when toothpick young you see a snake go mad with second nature and a sponge dragging your mother through nothing’s data
the farness of heaven is the farness of twin. a packed theater starts a fire in a factory. a mother and a father clay themselves as figures put to sleep in a clawfoot tub. across the board, a boy is crushed after witnessing for the image of the crowd-surfing girl he was made in. you can’t eat touch.
I show signs of having been alone beside a machine. I can count on my fingers the fingers I’ve lost. I am not like a newborn. my feet are each one smaller than the last as are my meals. like my father before me, I have a hard time being drawn to what attracts me. like my mother, I cook for those who’ve gone in and out of the eating disorder condoned by the church of sleep. like sister, I watch as my brother sets forgiveness as a trap for god. not every animal I see is an illusion. my eyes open twice to be flashed by the same short life. anything I name I give a prime number. appear to the sick I remember.
your attacker has a history of being baptized. identifies as male. was found hallucinating in a movie theater run by his father. we shot him not knowing he’d already been. his mother says his stutter is an act. she is what we call empty inside. you look like your father.
the people are looking for something that tells them what to show. my father can’t hear the storm for the honey on his knees. at birth, a blown eardrum gives the kid a way out of making friends. a sermon about washing a mountain with a rock takes a word from my mother’s mouth. grief is a good listener.
kingsoftrain 