Letter 081124 practice on death
Dear Ethan Hawke
Babies in the lost mind of god sell sleepwalking videos to childless first-timers. A deer and a deer okay with dying double their dreaming to make a hand. I fall from a tree in a world where something turns blue. Absence writes its name on the neck of loss. In case of return, return. Babies love nothing.
Letter 081124
Dear Ethan Hawke
I don’t write to anyone. I am hated. In photos I am the photographer’s ghost. In the dream I wear a girl’s bathing suit and someone shoots me in the foot. This is how I learn to swim. Thigh is a perfect word. The way it dies in the mouth. Mouth is dead. Who can tell. Only god. In Ohio at every fair the young say eat me until I’m young. We make jokes about crowhio and about the baby’s stomach born without an inside voice. The spider in my ear comes out a wasp. I don’t want my kids to see me do anything. Spiders get toothaches and angels, erections. Wasp is on its own.
Letter 080924
Dear Ethan Hawke
One minute you’re asking AI to make a jack-in-the-box and the next it’s making little rabbit hells for fake pregnancies and you try not to drink or see single but Ohio does that cup trick with hospitals but anyway have you seen my son’s gameshow or just my son or both or neither I put him on a horse once and my finger in my daughter’s mouth and nobody was hurting and the world went horse, toothache, horse, horse
no surgeries
a performative
god
fully
alone
seedless angels
a lot of touching
Forgetting was created by god to stop memory from inventing humankind. It’s a mouthful, and I want to die. Hold nothing, deer machine. Your perfect brain. The missing past.
Letter 080624 telling machines
Dear Ethan Hawke
Sister found the first of the human heads. She had been to practice sleepwalking from one abandoned building to the previous two. She thought it was a bird’s nest. A boy’s head, blue and quiet. She got her brother’s bike and brought the head home. She gave it a pillow then went to keep her brother awake. She took her brother next day to the spot, and the head had returned. Her brother carried it this time home and she pushed the bike beside him. Her brother was a mover of things underwater. Sadder, more serious. It took both of them to process the suddenness of knowing that the head had not in fact returned, but that instead there were two heads. Matching, in their home, on the same pillow. The third day of this insomnia thieved them again to the spot and gave them another matching head. Sister was glad for the bike, for the way it spaced her hands. From here, the story makes the sister old and the brother older. There is a day that someone beats them to the spot, and it’s the day of the last head. The head of god. But they don’t believe.
Letter 080524
Dear Ethan Hawke
It’s hard to miss god. Believe me. I accepted something into my body. I drank until I could drink even more. My palms turned blue in a black psalm. My wrist looked for its plural in a mirror known for its blood-colored echoes. Forgiveness has two left hands. Broken by faith.
fuck me I miss
loneliness
Letter 080424
Dear Ethan Hawke
Suicide is the only way to let people know you want to kill yourself. God is just an alien with a tattoo. I say things so finally that my body stops hating me and my soul starts. The angel of clickbait says fucker fucker vote. I don’t want to die. But there has been some criticism.
kingsoftrain 