I hate this city and its two sold houses. Every third angel is just a baby eating paper and being healthy for too long. Pain has a doorbell that turns blue when touched and another that turns blue when not. The last time you had sex this caterpillar had a ribcage. I don't always die. Sleep is the ghost of waiting.
Under the moon of a flat earth, they’re putting pills in baseballs. We’ve our choice of police siren. My Ohio horse could be your Ohio deer. We could be resurrected more than once to identify a child’s body. There is a language image does not know. Words sound different in hell.
~ Lightning and earthquake feuding in an untouched doom where two angels, birthmark and bitemark, still dream of killing their tattooed sons. I know this place. Place is a bomb that other bombs find. ~ The tattooed sons are in love. Son bitemark doesn’t have a tongue; birthmark does all the ironing. Their dead child speaks to them through a fishhook that is always hot. ~ Faith is an eating disorder. Mothers faint in threes. I teach my brothers to suck in their stomachs and a junkyard refrigerator becomes our clock. We smell like a dead child. We smell blank. We search online for images of hands and for the word missingness. Flies made of wind and glass show us to our food. Our eyes go without. ~ Our invaders had no language. Your mother was suicidal until she told you how moved she was by her own birth. The needle had its moment of recognition. A fetus opened its mouth in a paint can. Replacement can be a city. But here it’s a form destroyed for being described. ~ So many dead bodies, and no one has died. City of the predicted present. The sons count hoofprints left on a whale. ~
a spider tapping on a fingernail tooth tooth come to the glass
iii. Ohio erotica: A face left between the shoulders of a humanlike deer. Touch as a death too small for a ghost. A resurrected toddler who still can’t make a fist. Mirror on frostbitten mirror.
i. There are many ways to be afraid. All of them are the stomach. ii. When there are enough people in hell, there will be a hell.
A crucifixion, a unicycle, a young pair of handcuffs. A stomach that’s faster than god. Fever, or a thunderstorm trying to belong to a puppet show. A surgeon shared by two who only touch at funerals. Blue xrays that softened my ankle.
I cannot enter the dream. Not with my toy stomach. This is how we don’t meet. How we don’t pass the age our children were when they died. Jesus rubs a scarecrow the wrong way, or better yet a burned boy presses a tick into his own head to silence the field of his father’s empty helicopter. Jokebook, bible, kingdom. I don’t know where we are. A bullet and a tooth are found outside of the sheep they touched in. The ocean is the ocean mistaking blood for god’s hair. Longing gaslights nostalgia. Underwater, Ohio looks like an ear. I give my son a television to throw at the television, but he forgets. Orphan, widow, elevator. Every time we go to hell, an animal gets its noise.
The bones of a golden something A fingerprint on a trap door The toothache and the soul and the toothache A grey hair, god’s, from the unreached puberty of lightning Baby blur asking blue for mercy while choking in a snowglobe I will change that line
kingsoftrain 