CAPITULATE F ORMS /CAPITAL presenting themselves to the crew Overheard announcements swim with child crying in winter how

right lobes throb how light robes bob overeaster Europeans hide their candy in the seat beside us the terminal wing-shaped & people shuffling through songs their smells, paper says an eras bended on the big screen ended & no more flavored jelly beans: the color of your laughter is if-you-have-no-doctor-you-cannot-stash white white like a woman I touch whose bag-and-fin candy is some kind of worry there tonguelike & cold I dream in storms & strand whole communist land tracts a missing person among the magazine pages gallons of waiting I only touch a bag when I want to put something in it.

the tank swims free since all the bubbles pop today I keep this weight and you hand your head arithmetic you get full put out tongues to wag the walk with to drag the curves and waltz the difference between dell and dale discussed without standing just a fingers width will do

Some drugs are better dragged in lines along the wall in airport storage or steerage some breeding habits bore the practical sinners in us invention of new start-up positions or potions we wear another company shirt skimps of cloth trade our open hairs swear our skin dresses these color the same mess someone recognizes in each of us

I dont want to be disemboweled by the vacuum of the airplane toilet we said wed fall together such a tenuous hold we have on whatevers locked inside us.

But everyone booed Dolores down the full length of the bar Death counted each snickers bar wrapper wed ever hid together

Sounds are real, too the measurements ears take they continue growing hair in bushels the best I can do is say your name fit the till in somehow among the dirt and new tomatoes the noise of coins in a bucket

we op do wop perfume ex ist sterile strella listing missed con ection r gone or el or be long so and so on

the milder parts of the candle its wax and bottom

hours before numbered and mute I was nothing like a doctor keeping my hands clean in case they had to enter someones chest or cavity they say a sucking wound all I think is voicemail vacuums produced by the absence of body little tornadoes of dust I think of things no one else wants the morning turned from rust to an old sucked-lozenge

last night thirty dump trucks waited to get filled with asphalt from the byway it got torn up & stripped while we were sleepdriving still no supra-urban spaces constructed nothing counts for the intersection between airplane and alien movies and crosspollination terminator grafted to thoreau Please take this time to silence your devices

& the deal the fire god made with John Conner could keep us safe maybe not but Ill better my sand with a blaster and terminate my pancakes. Ill eat my fill, pull the throttle back & let the good times hide my throat watching basketball with people were busy who believe we should not tread on snakes & swear were young & undoing our parents networth: toothpaste & gasoline prices. Our poor spines cured of their curves and lives with us in them. I am not a pad, a wattle, a paddlewheel I swear to water the words with I pronounce property & know the atmosphere all tones at once sings in the range. Theres a finders fee, a finger in the ridge of the courts pitch, salted every police states every wound you live with to its fault a piata beveled with shovels the dream endless churning each dog has dug together or separate holes. I set the table in and pull out the cloth last our names written sideways on the wall, the plates glass shatters.

Tony Mancus is the author of three chapbooks: Bye Sea, Diplomancy, and Bye Land. He is cofounder of Flying Guillotine Press and he works as a technical writer. He and Shannon live just outside of DC with two yappy cats.