birthplace 51 My sister says she looks good today. I tell her I don’t know when I will write this. The moonshine is asleep. I worry it might lamb itself out of helping me sell photos to god. Each stage of touch is abandoned.
birthplace 50 The more internal the life, the longer the past. A velvet cricket.
birthplace 49 My mouth was born in a mouth that remembered you. There never was a god, says god. I know you want me to be happy. Nyquil, moonshine. Touch wants to be a word and sleep wants to be a language. Our short memory keeps dogs alive. The sea is looking for pain's childhood.
birthplace 48 I never did write that line. God cried for a year. For what seemed like god.
birthplace 47 A ballerina in a married mirror smokes alone. Dreams of pinching her sister’s fog-eating baby. Fore pain, far skin. Image as a darkroom for deadness.
WEAPONRIES (i) He shot three of us in the stomach for throwing a snowball at his pick-up truck. None of us died completely. By none I mean a priest and a pilot are changing the diaper of an indifferent baby. By scar we mean we held sticks and surrounded the paw that our god had filled with fog (ii) It takes we guess three low-flying helicopters and a herd of wheelchairs to scare jesus away from eating the bomb that we made for men only dogs can hear (iii) By stomach I mean both field and church are empty and that whole meals reappear in the newborn’s outstanding loneliness
birthplace 46 Touch is a dress made of snow. God can’t sing. Me I’m lost in my frog-loss dream. Tired of touch and its touching machine.
birthplace 45 Heaven not there when I get there The study of your longest child At night an eyelid aches itself over a stone Sleep, the death of absence Lossology, the study of this isn’t The password I cry with
birthplace 44 God does not slowly realize he'll be found naked. Minutes go by in every place. No one has eaten.
birthplace 43 It was snowing. The baby was there even though it wasn’t its day. Mom was vacuuming. My hair was trying to burn. Your brother the anorexic was swearing he’d seen a frog turn to dust. My sisters argued over nostalgia and did not over time sensitive déjà vu. Touch came out of nowhere to die above an angel’s knee. Tornado, dad said, impossibly. His eye had crawled into something and he was looking for an image to get it back. Snow on our frogless loss. We made that rule about your brother.
kingsoftrain 