I drop my mother’s cup of fake blood as my father tries to find the movie scene that will give him his age. My thumb breaks in a past death. The mumbling of its break speaks a moral thing to the smallest body ever to be vividly isolated. I am hearing all of this through an eggshell that mom says belongs to the angel best known for keeping quiet about skin. Under my brother’s shirt there crawls a wasp that smells like god. None of the blood can be saved.
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.
kingsoftrain 