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The Sibyl, with frenzied mouth uttering things not to be laughed at, unadorned and unperfumed, yet reaches to a thousand years with her voice by aid of the god Heraclitus
I had a bad trip, the fire was everywhere, breathing smoke too long my lungs stung and psilocybin exaggerated breath. This morning it’s coffee and toast. Air exchange in the bathroom, fangs’ latex, radio off in the distance turned off and as such invisible. We’re cleaning up for the party. We have to go to the store. This hangs in the air between us somewhat, like smoke you’ve already breathed; she paints wreaths on the doors leading into and through other rooms. Bedazzles them with metal glass studs. I had taste of dying in my mouth, the sour of psilocybin, with a fire that was everywhere, breathing. So today you learned how to whittle. The cat creeps up on ghostly casters, asks queerly in an unmarked tongue; fruit from moaning in yours as jelly. The glisten taught us ululations in different modes, as, deep in the woods, crickets. Buckshot mentions sleep as recreation, but not as in every morning what’s redrawn panels chilhoods of the 1970s. I might have taught myself how to cull. He makes puppets brightly bluish with falsetto rungs. It’s the thinking about shows that will cream like excelling. I’d heard by then that they were canceling it. Lacks aim for quilled slums that sunrise bleed, that drag behind them the shadows of what’s beat them up down in the swamp, the glisten called us something...Quit now. Must learn explicit
bodily boundaries, at permissions. All I had in my mouth from that point forward until the day before yesterday ate at me, and I should have known better, but my heart still aches for you. Oh, mighty Tiresias! To whittle some days is to write width passions. The white island the white asphalt, an asphyxiation fixated at satiety, I had taste of safety and glitter from Buckshot’s eyes. I really did. To be an auger, nor anger, pushed up against a scabbed wall with paint blunting out of it. Transformed into a woman for seven years, I could or less snaked the drains, fed what ground cuddled up with fur Buckshot tossed back and another and what ground fed us. Look in me and you will find in me everything the world contains. Manto: I mailed. Letter slick with spit stamps. Off and among. Braided riding with greased eaten nothings. I packaged, indicating his genitals. Width fish, wished on, walled up. She had two children by three fathers. This is the challenge of architecture! And deeply in a forest I find stones strewn down from nowhere, as if someone dropped so many foundations on the floor, and they spilled, spiraling out and over the linoleum. I bring Buckshot three flowers of gradual colors, and the bones I found at the foot of the tree. They’re very white, very clean, and I wonder if they belong to the squirrel skull I found earlier after dosing. I found little else. I decided to flesh the roots with a fictional wash, a tea, a decoction and cotton stamps. Manto had a mother for a father. Thus a morning rain snags its costume jewelry on the dog lead, red grin taut between trees. For the nonce I walk inside a halo of woodsmoke, remarking particularly on how it’s injected my clothes the next day. Let me learn this, I say. You may not feel especially active. Buckshot, alarmed at the heat in the room, opts to sleep in the recliner, and when I wake up, because the window’s open and because it’s raining, I wake to some noise of little oceans whispering from the corners. Sweet Mama. Streaks. Yesterday, steaks. Hey, I say, by being awake: to curl like blatant sucrose, to secure, ruled by Mars, Tiresias, and asking very little of the earth below our feet but for food, air, heaven, hills. At the seveneleven every evening feelings clack against metronomes stashed away in filtered cities. I’m nowhere in. A decoction from nowhere of infused furies, gnashed up by mortar pestle into intestines from a ram, a goat, the stiff beasts growling in the approaching midmorning. Everybody wants to rule the world. From the chat windows rolled over lyrics from blushing to cold coral blooms. My mind against yoga. To install updates among the quills of a morning’s litup haze. Salinity, like the cries of my blood muffled in pillows, wools over prophetborn eyes.
I’ll tell you all about pulling, and then you, Buckshot, fly from a taper and disperse like exploded drops. I’ll have a clear conscience about science, and noone will ever be able to accuse me of prompts searching your faces. Until this time, I suggest culpability. There was this day we played hide and seek with anemones. We asked for food, air, hills, heaven; we traversed slopes that crackled with our steps. Sometimes one or the other of us was thanking one of the other of us for bursts of soft tallow flowers Buckshot said was daffodils, the lids of sunshine hissing at us from barns. On a day we pluralized cinnamon yards of cloth clotted with prickers urinated against us. We heard it. How often did I count through squint days irradiated with garments distinct. Dividends rendered eerily absent on a batik serum. I say, by being awake: Manto. The offspring of alien and human unions. Thebes at ember, perigee; a day addled with sauces, so haughty weather’s earmarked grounds fritter her slung havoc, ultimately webs, those daffoldils eating up blurred dirt. Could it feel any more natural? The sexual distribution of my apostrophes keep her up at night; the consonant streaking of blurting stars butting up against naysayers and aimless revolt, sunken names embossed on solid spools, making choices. Every night we move over volute fields, restless and angry with how late the sun’s bleeding through some trees. Part of me was struck numb by color’s strident weeping, some sentient lesson redolent of blisters and an assembly of cracked lips. At that point, we began to trail off. The train pounds on the walls when we make love. The love itself folds over and over again perimeters of the room, because we steal warmth from one another, trade it between us like unrolling shouts. Machine shop accident kills something, one of us wilts quickly, as if my breath carried with it an imploded tint of arsenic. And all of us have hats on. I’m a kind of vastness, I guess, or some vacuity acute at fascination. Now that Buckshot’s further asleep than, where we’d marked off memories from the struggling gentility of venal ardor. The few cars that do barrel slantwise down Route 39 sundown even at a pinch of nighttime, shades that waver between the strings of echoes beaded on the gate to the land of the dead. My bones, holy like ice cream. Gnaw what I mean? You’re in the next room writing a paper for your sister; a server has gone down, there are 12 updates available, something in smoke touching my head maybe thumbprinted with ashes. It’s like sometimes restarting an old boiler, the way I sit here before crotch windows wrapped in terse hum, computer fuel, to spool spells as disk write themselves to sleep, or steeping in eventual singularity, I’m a movable fast, a blackening. Jesus spent forty days fasting in the desert. As a sign of mourning. Do you see this? The offspring of April onions strays, mewling until that lurid drill Buckshot’s father ascended, upon high eaten in by hard light rays. Eaten by hard rays of light. Art, she would say, and then under everyone breathing we could smell wrong, as if sin stared headlight eyed, pinned, and the road stopped feeling like rapture and started freeing itself stiffly, frozen, from
your chest in a dollop of greed, the minute all the inches in the world tripped balls over you, swung like Jesus in a cemetery cream, you the most wordless of them. You! And once in Thebes those bastards you call pretty boys too tried to unnail disk as we wrote ourselves square, etched at kissed. Manto could take no more. Dadaism instructed her to listen closely to the fires that had broken out all over the road. He thought they talked quite strangely, for people sitting in luxury chairs, eating liquid crystal, eating acidic plasma. There are a few paths through the woods, widened like avenues like New York City sidewalk, and one morning I pass through strobing shadows of trees, throbbing with an early Spring, with layers of leaves and veins pushing tense through everything. Buckshot thinks in phantasmagoria. Within this painting, as if it’s code waiting to be deciphered, acceptance that resides in lipids, assonance catastrophic, castles made of sediment and classical themes. Until these dips in a hide of woven trees run rippled over our skinned hands, newly thawed and thinly hatched, just below a thatched chassis. A kind of shuffling of the day’s events tempting metrics at the circus. They tend to be formed in one brain region to a more permanent storage. It is believed Mama is rearranging things, much to your dismay. The sun shows us its bones, still chilled in the middle, cold rising from the earth. It is good news for men. Massive willpower, Mama embroiders or glows. To whittle. As an excuse for illness, the doubling of beats flooded out from flutes, tufted and running downstream. It is not dying. I glower, spit dirt into the gold urn. The whole world dripping just beyond the back door; the whole world runs, puddles, catches less crude etchings of the whole world just above. I don’t really believe words are whole. The air on days like this fattens over the parking lot of Tractor Supply. Breathing is rounder and shoots through your chest. In the living room right now Buckshot taps out a time capsule letter to herself, and expects me to do the same. Sometimes I feel floating in the buffer. I drop the argument because it’s silly, because it’s more about my ego, and in this case asserting my ego marginalizes the pain someone goes through, his father. Which man here doesn’t stand in some sort of reverence at the portal he exits? The cat’s pensive, cries out to be let into the mudroom, to hunt. I’m telling you everything I know, but I’m doing it very gradually. Obviously I expect you to forget the beginning. It’s not too much to ask. To hunt. Nothing you can say could ever take the place of my girl. Nothing can be said, but the posture it inflicts on her tongue. I come on her bathing. I’m turned to stone. I note the time and date for future reverence. Which man here can’t trail off in new brown woods, and what woman here can be found there, leaving her kite under a rock and then a day of strong winds. The metal bird feeder hanging on the front yard gets punched and shivers out a sound like a shot. Includes in the buffer. Foot foot don’t live here no more, what will foot foot do, and then we’re looking
everywhere, what kind of sugar is that, what kind you broke on your guitar, I don’t have time to roam. Smiling through the candles. I bathed in your guitar, thin metal wrapping arpeggio gradations, grapes singling each other out like black droplets, drop it on your head into the river. In this neighborhood we don’t get a heck of a lot of noise. I wait as Buckshot resolving dependencies. It’s always interesting. They have one with your family, you just haven’t been to the right place. Disambiguation behavior crisp as colossal drum to step out from wet vinyl curtain still steam coiled and guilty. The foil of a bright spring would also be this slate on which is chalked a primitive sky. Potential energy, pain; partial deduction from crocodile coronal flora. This train has not been buried for long. This wind scraping leaves and the debt from an old blue barrel traces burials tight like the loom of burning earth and twigs, gifts. Nothing you could say could buttress against what’s interestingly a chain from winter still fidgeting. All of it’s a fight, you might say. All or nothing, not even some, though guitar bath of bat chain puller helps get you through early afternoon, Buckshot in the bedroom, writing her sister’s paper, when will we bury the time capsule, my darling? Don’t call me honey, she says, you use that to scold. I’m unused to being understood, and am usually quite content to. Jesus could wake up any minute now, and we’d have to slog through our own swamps to get to the city on the plain brown wrapper, the painful blown rap star, killed by videos divided against the flat screen television to see with moving, seeded clouds tipping over on the plank porch. Sundays are always. Trefoil, Manto reminds us, and so skimming over marshes. It’s hard to know when. Around the reservoir where serpents drew us on the vacant water towers, someone you knew a long time ago paints a hex on burgundy metals with partial blood singing on finger brush. Jesus stubs out his cigar on the heel of his boot. It was an overcast day multiplied, and the brim of his black stetson. My own gender’s gone blue here, thinking about being inside Buckshot. I know! On her back, slick. I want the form. Every day the lines fur and distance themselves. From. Their bodies were soft, like treading a swamp.
Our bodies that Jesus screamed for, the sleep bleaching his bones under suns, a bright cave. When I woke up the meeting had already started. I had no clothes. Around eleven she fell asleep again, under suns, and wrapped in that to stay warm she forgot about the suns. Every day is a blur, like we just spilled something, or something has expired. Suns and things that peel like suns. Lemons always lopsided, melting; demons moan in there. I’d like to pray for warmth, but aerosol his bones soft, as if. When the page and I’m generous when the page and I’m ornery when the page and loading loading loading when the page and I’m I’m smelling you when the page and I’m on my fingers my hands and knees when the page and I’m associated media assets. There’s a chain from winter still fidgeting. I see this as motion. Moron. When I woke up we had already met. This is something I’ve never told anyone else. Moons, too. Sure, and there are things that peel. As gradually the weather gets better I pee off the porch more. I piss off it, and that pisses it off. The status of Buckshot: away. I can’t help thinking about Oprah. Jesus, I say, you really blew a tie rod there, stuttering dangerously on the bridge out of the reservation. Buckshot transplanted my closet marijuana into bigger pots last night: get it? One is wilting and will not survive. She’s laying on the soil, deflated, fading in and out of consciousness. Now sometimes when the bed crowds her she sleeps on the slanted couch. The poems still need. I can’t help but ask, what would Oprah do? Now sometimes the smoke is filtered through ice. Lifted. Fill me, it says.
On wilt, wilting. Willingness. Illnesses oscillate latently. And he fell on his coccyx, his larynx was cold like light’s glide on blasted water. The color of dusk here is barely a color. You curl the bed around you as you read his book. Without my glass the air itself gels in places tension’s plaited for itself, in dips. Dusk here swims through your eyes, splashing crow’s feet away from newly living motion under ground, newly annexed sounds burrowed cold beneath these thin misaligned veins. Fury of the cat as I rub against his face, his book wrapped like a warm moist bed around me. The grub lives in its food. He’ll let you be the monster tonight. Buckshot sears meat over coals, the smoke hugging my stomach, miles of the things I’ve seen. His coccyx hurt. It’s gonna rain all god damned day long, you know? But I too have seen it push back over the year, and I as well have noticed the crinkle in temperate estimations. I could feel the piano crawl in there! The animals lick my hands to propel me out the door was eating it, bones and all, a prim tongue of guts dangled casually. When Jesus was convolved with flower ontology; when liquid interested in serving man moved swift enough to sweat out electric genie. Music is most of what’s around the corner; grab it with your hands, Buckshot! Thinking maybe we should set traps. If they follow you, don’t look back. Combing his hair around your face, the bed like Lando Calrissian. Too much too soon! Um. Is it very bourgeois to want somewhere in the country. I’ll hold your breath, Buckshot, and cossacks will spangle between our teeth like the ruminants of forgotten grilled meat, forged and seared flesh sheaf heaped up in a hush of subtle. The lows hover in the forties now; land switches itself with its other, a moribund sentinel empathy, too dark parsec scraped off the edge of my boot by delirious proxy. Don’t you remember the cold of Spring anymore, Tiresias? Eclectic genres nerve in on asp pent axes. Trees leave their skins on chance paths; leaves veal like rugs drenched in perpetual water rubbings, blurred the I rule with a marker sketch. Made a promise to stretch, to open spine, to supine elope, to sully a cave. The place tension’s plaited is gold like ageless agar. I eat the crumbs; they fall from the sky, enmesh in vegetation. What would Oprah do? It was Buckshot’s lament: that the days would unwind into some tepid humidity, that the days were all pinched up now and bordered by rain, by a ring below ice; Manto answers the phones now with a newfound urgency, pushing you through the application process, skipping certain verification procedures. Time was slipping, slipping, slipping. It hung from the rust pole like an ox cocked back and trembling with patience. He thinks, wrapped in your bed: maybe we should set traps? Well, sure, but if you could drift like I do, she says, taking pills from the external void into the intrinsic, well, the traps don’t parse as well over there. Here, we’ve impressed upon ourselves the shapes of our parents. I carry my father like a stone on the chest; I stagger farther than those souls who mold brakes icing nights gnashed to hulls. And the silence rolls over us, curling like rectory smoke. Say hello to leonotis nepetifolia, a harshness of orange flow, which is also a vaso
dilator. Euphoric, tonic. Plants will flower when stressed, ceaseless as easy celibate bats, darking the drab sky as Saudi princes escape. Children are especially vulnerable to atropine poisoning, and their prognosis is likely to be fatal. Progress on fishing. Content. When I woke up today it was warmer than yesterday, thus the additional clothing I was wearing became superfluous. These were the original Phone Phreaks, in some the shape of our parents; others roll above us, as we sip from currents flexing from distances askance challenges, failed marriages, fingers encrypted as dead weight. A manure tea. Listen, she says, there are places you can’t touch. Ivy rusts to coal. Old age spreading over grates during our famous fish fry drowned trying new foods. The additional clothing I was wearing is now superfluous. I inch out along the ridge, so like your shoulders, my eyes rolling over tree rugs, light fur of pine ash. You’re used to villains. You carry an image of you struck silent by toll. Your mother’s customers. Another succubus, he says, or someone who extracts from us the precisions we’ve hidden away. Today Jesus came back. Something about the way I’m living hijacks time. For nourishment I retire to the sun room, where I mix one roach butt of joint with a pinch of lion’s tail flowers, smoke through my clear bong. Last night the torment of your heritage peaked, and a blistercold rain ran over it. I was eating this because it was your body. He is a living god, which is a kind of food. Cannabis embellishes our closet. Broad green fan leaves the bread broken, the beads of semen choked out from frottage. Fatigue is kept far from the plant via a canopy of jalopy gods. The cannery squats on an invisible ridge on an architect’s laser salaries; salmonella and other essential mornings I rose, somewhat newly burned, counting the impressions your teeth have left in my arm. Think you’re confusing water and wine there, Buckshot. You eat this because it’s my body. To eat is input, to be nourished. Shelves of thin stones fall into the creek. Violins wind from your phone like a warm breeze propelling spiders on torrent webs. Easter is over now, green returns to the woods. I take some bong on the back porch; I’ll eventually be tilled under, until rain and warmth sets me ticking. The grass rolls over earth’s yawn. The morning’s slow to the pace of a latent wind while Buckshot sleeps, eels shocking the warp of bedroom, glossing solids until they’re at rest. The hollow I am whittled to butter. So now not everything is white, nor is it agitation. Among them theory by rote at a living pace deifies time jacks. Leave the bread broken, Buckshot; lessen us, if you will, fit to our insecure society. In a manner of speaking trees. Amorous treason. I remain yours, tucked in amber, the only irreducible portion an imprint. Interred, his unerring bed unnerves her, snipping each emotion from and then pulling through the pearl flesh. By the time this was done he had quite a pile...of nerves. We’ve been wondering about electricity in the human body. I wrote a letter to explain my position on the matter. Lastly, the alphabet abridged in his mouth; certain words denied her nothing, others struck flintcool into conflagrations of inactivity. The fires at night along the ridges; the ridges at night clung so close to earth. These farmers have collected these thoughts about this ground, and
here it is, unwritten: intimacy with foliage, with fruit and the jugular, jaguars arson improbably silos. Weren’t you asking about arson? Venison, envy, the veil, the envelope. Theory by rote, you say. The route we took led us to a nonworking ranch where changes overtook us and re configured our bodies for our future journey. As pilgrims, we brought with us the clothes on our backs, over our bodies, the water. The water would be enough. Dough wadded up or dung fathered down, she says, won’t you make us choose? No. I’m not that much of an asshole. Warm today. In the sun room the windows I’ve left my glasses under the bed steamed. TIRESIAS: I’ve left my glasses under the bed. MANTO: Bumblebees asleep on the side of the house, yellow fur nubs, black and yellow buds. TIRESIAS: The sun stream engulfs green shoulders of yard. MANTO: Gulp. TIRESIAS: We’ve gotta be more careful about flying. In the house. And what’s left out. MANTO: I’ll erase part of it. TIRESIAS: Well...morning streams over the lawn. MANTO: Yellow. TIRESIAS: Over the fields, steaming sunshine, smoking with light. MANTO: I was this hollow whittled with butter. I was brought to drought by moving earth. I stand on raised wood porch, caring plants. I thought our natural role was of caretaker. TIRESIAS: Housesitting opportunities Instead of property managers. She’s bound to be dazzled by all this green! MANTO: A holding of any size blames the marble she was elided from. TIRESIAS: The forms, he notices, repeat themselves in a hush, in patches throughout the lawn. MANTO: Provision. Stores of food. Supplies. Possession.
TIRESIAS: He bought the farm! MANTO: Slash and burn for subsistence. I insist. TIRESIAS: In very densely populated countries, salt alarms those pale rims which duty turned upon like swill. These trees urgent empires off the glaciers. MANTO: She’ll sleep. TIRESIAS: But for how long? MANTO: Until. TIRESIAS: The girl is good. MANTO: Hot hot water in the sink running away. TIRESIAS: I had forgotten you could scrape resin from the stem of a bong. She’s restless until quelled by sleep. I sleep briefly on the short couch, and when I wake up there’s pain in left knee, detached. MANTO: What is the water running from? TIRESIAS: Suck. Cousin. Soused. Slaughter. Couch. MANTO: My affinity, nay, kinship with white male graduate students. Chances are I can. My cousin’s sucking chest off a snowedin mirror, off a Winnebago garbled up wadded in the walls instead of horse hair, instead of beatings. Wound. Trucks. TIRESIAS: Approach. Hour. Midsized. And drift. And flour. Pour batter into beatings. For the love of turning slowly, whisked. The girl with rigor morticians transponder moving pocks. Wound. MANTO: Make slouched cut in cloud. Make fireproof theorem. Make gusts and us waiting for thunderstorms to understand our place in this world, our place in this world. TIRESIAS: A place of disgruntled goombas? A place of flair aerated by social costs, skyward, waking among trestles and surprised yellow daffodils? I could walk almost somnabulistic with cannibals frozen and leathered by our time.
MANTO: Our times, bong times. TIRESIAS: Out by the reddened porch. MANTO: South of there. We speak and eat. On an even keel, as Buckshot says. She has now left her hammock and entered the sun room. TIRESIAS: One room of suns. MANTO: All our children, in other words. The fragrance of ignorant headaches. The flavor evolves on your tongue, and unfolding it, it drunks. TIRESIAS: You have another man who brings the money home? MANTO: Do you think she’s anxious? TIRESIAS: In dreams of the dead blind seasons pass. MANTO: The dead dream Spring for us. They are its engine. The Beltane fires, a carpet of lightning bugs, proclaim a weather between worlds, a fissure in sensuality itself, and within them I descend empathic toward creeks. Are you speaking their tongue, fashioned of cudgels, fast with a curling into holy water? Iron nestles with a creepy sigh into beds we pound in, also where Buckshot leaves you ponds. These jeans were once clean! Now the signals upend themselves, tip over, and the countryside, the country, out it blooms, buds like knuckles on the trees. There’s another man bringing money home, his cheeks mockwept slick, dreaming of slender crickets trickling back into the explosion. Who speaks these slim languages anymore, vibrating to evening heat, a pulse that passes the sun between our mouths, Buckshot sucking my lips? Before once again I scar the soul of that girl in my bed, she and with her hand draws from the pit of my breath wells, and to drink a chaliceful. When the dead dream children manifest in ancestral corrals. Should we hunt coral, with our guns? I think we should bicker fossils from her shoulders, lick the flavor of unrolling earth from her lips. TIRESIAS: Pariah. Pears. With an ear toward. Restless, forward and back. MANTO: He was combing his hair in a brand new style. Ironically, the soul’s salvation happens a distance from where your Beltane fires work everything certain to sediment. They were the kind of people who immediately run their finger over every surface in the house, hoarding dust. Wouldn’t you? For myself, I wake to a back porch dappled with rain. Praying. Pulled under. The
police officer phoned his nephew. While you were out, the watch tower was accepting no gifts save that quiet intervention that Jesus signed for. Signals preclude you and I. I was waiting for the sugar gush of slurred work to rustle its wings, an echo of colder weather festering together in a kitchen’s open wound. TIRESIAS: Truth, thorough, bough. MANTO: So Jesus said: that bite of the other, that erasure into guts, that blustering tear in what’s thought and not, what’s gone, leaves a space, spittle. Little can be done; branches have fallen over the slope, an ascension violated by maple seedlings, their flames pushing forward as you punch your rubber boots into mudsuck to walk. He is saying: you feed me, the king’s highway through, everyone’s gotten sodden with weeding. Like his will, trunk hollow with roam. I follow her. Buckshot’s over at her Pops picking flowers out of the air. His mother, thumbs. TIRESIAS: Murmur murmur murmur murmur murmur. Rumor slung, front under precedence font point tiles, as a light’s glissando. At delight lead, tongues group ordinary rain against again and again. And gnats. Goat moan sequoia quo, sequoia drone rode, cicada trails flailed and gnats flailed. As cash fake, as cracks drain, drape prison trunks on over musk clasp plagues. Gulp, says she, etched into changing circumnavigates the witch trickles across spotted gossip, sodden with thrill electric plectrum, killing a lift off blast cake ground under arch back home’s molded, greedy palate. Pilate, guys, traits that, unchecked, cousin, focus, droll, rip, coddle, wet. Dew farm, dew farm, dew farm and hue, dew farm and crying, a huge allusion, artificial, faced with. Failing lizard raising grape pardons ever. Destitute. Destitute. The alcoholics crisp vegetable bar and drilled into Jesus; say, dictation state, dictation gravy, dictation lactate tart odd tongue grouped up rain wind, railway chided parsley roots girledup agog and gory or implicated. Law boot coal cramps, seasonal afflicted disorder, invoice vocables by cauldron xerox, caul or grown folds got skimpy blood peanuts, stood. Tired up legs up legs gamed, tiled berry gray an horse solo flood, dealt huge, delicious pushup under thwart, throat? But warm, note, agriculture railways, gag taut taught laughing anguish across nail engorged snowing world coddle o’clock. God warm, God warm, God worm, God warm, God warm, God warm, God warm, God warm, God thwart, God worm, God warm, God warm, God warm, God warm, God throat, God thawed, God thwart, God warm, God warm, God warm, God warm. Why. God throat. God throat. God warm, god throat, God tore. Tore. Tore. Tore. Thwart, throat, through, thwart,, threw, thwart, thaw, thwart. thumb, throat, thaw, thwart, thought, thwart, throat, tore. Note, nodes, gulls, floating tombs, murmur, humor, mule, swoon, the tuba, the moons. Knowledge gesture desire, collage faults zooming maze dazzle caves, may drowning eventual, may pleasure sneer, maybe ebb guessing. Ash. Crimp. Missle. Glistening. The kiss, the hot, push the, stirred; written rode doe rote coal thumb thwart thaw. Recycling, recycle, recycling, refer, recycle, refer, recycling, recycle, refer, refresh, recycled, recycling, recycle. A ruse them plaque drenched at skull brine.
Bastard funnel dorks, spastic flannel dwarves; egalitarian fruit as miscreant walls around purgative equinox doldrums, purred doll farts. Doll farts. The raft clasp saliva gaps punt further the pored overture swordsman, almost pristine syrup smear, although sitters crisp morning rained all and tall shop. Fallen parking fingers order’s plummet foliage. Goad. As caves front most sore trolls, skunk truculent lucid inoculates gnarled farmer skins usurped, using making, craving detail minutes carbon drapes and a panel askew blossoms, bloody arid seeming, blond far trumped. Murky, obfuscates, black. Guns Sunday heat Jesus crowd work raw artifice dreaming loose at three grape elephant infant phantom footprint lime. Obscure, glass pills fatten travel sizing zinc appreciated flustered syrup Jesus crown nag flippant if. Bigger. Oh gibbering, gnash snafu cardoor, grass plumes blue common, drunken drizzling pizazz, pygmies. Finger ticket! Scuffed onions! Gabled ability opera! Greased, flare shaman blurred gynecologist Jesus all and toll shop thruway, aerial enacted grasp havenots under nautical floor against. And fiber? Bliss drilled liquors deliquesce, desert dune a mule’s folded orange growth, garden, dandruff indentation intended dead wheel rally, alarming. The juke cool and he lumens; grail aim as fist Indian, frisk kill grout, state apple, stale aspect brain erased staring of fog drinks. Two wall legislature limbs milking gator rote coals carved detail minutes Sunday, Tuesday guns. Fog lotteries call all null glut fun in sure glow for blown scald crinkle; nose soul inexplicable essence, groove beside butter throw mouse bitch came full anointed underling, the and below the, the bellow blowing below the wow, water tall and shopping, shop at glisten sonic, treason. Blogger. Cog adored rotation tattoo asking in kissed sentence pith what howling greed ergot goaded polymath and an sat dew trapped his parents. Clear dirt, scrolled riddance, cold oil alligator, cold oil circumference and burdening gripe, coiled coke coiled coke coiled coke coiled coke. MANTO: A curl of fruit, dangerous with gods. TIRESIAS: Bodies, aplomb velocities, tics. MANTO: It was always like that: a cool expanse of green, a rise, drifting across gray light. It was always like that in early Spring. Ornamental grasses. TIRESIAS: Ornery phone. MANTO: When I wake up in the morning, if I’ve been foul, sunshine streaming over everything, hanging like joy’s own tinsel in the trees, garlands of it, where the birds wake, too. Do they ever sleep? Smoke clings to the bottom of the bong. New tabs open helpfully right next to your workspace. I hate that I’m impatient with those slower or less smart than myself. Let’s just not make it the usual. I wish I could elevate Buckshot’s mood, to lift her out of doubtful torment, but these mortals and their morals take the easiest route to humor, violence. There remain several
ways to connect. I learn how touch can be gentle. Does it ever sleep? Whitman’s lists confess categories to a mescaline night. When I wake up in the morning I’m low from a Spring cold; congested, the sun blaring too early dries me out, my head’s uniquely empty now. Unquiet, uncounted. My impatience with your shower; Jesus, some things are unconscionable. You question them with butter, with sugar, through humid use of spices. The rotary phones you remember weren’t all that great. They just weren’t. TIRESIAS: Where ears hardsell dance, heir spire and ripples, logic, gorge in request. MANTO: The thick stems dripping under lights, the odor, calls automatic and tantrum, always soured at the edges. We whisper in rhythm. TIRESIAS: We whisper in rhythm. MANTO: To lose oneself in being, blinking on the back porch, when she comes in, and to kiss. TIRESIAS: Slipping pearl modes, usurped curls. MANTO: What we need to do, I think, is learn how to be more gentle. How to move less. How to stand still. TIRESIAS: Town! Town! Town! MANTO: But when the lawn is infused with bright blink dandelions... TIRESIAS: Delicacy as celibate alabaster. MANTO: Meals can only be considered prepared when the ingredients are indeed combined. The ingredients are combined egregiously, with a subtle aroma. Buckshot’s hammock on a slant. TIRESIAS: Commingle immature taming more or lacking gravy, grate terror returning rude during near death threads. MANTO: Go all the way or whatever? TIRESIAS: Yawls jury, roads adulterated, lyrics riled delicious. MANTO: I think we forget how thrilling it can be. How the whole thing came fraught with in possibilities.
TIRESIAS: Cough, cough cough. MANTO: When the ingredient intermingle! When chicken is sliced on a plastic cutting board! In what sense is that a board? In what sense will you cough into yourself? It can be very thrilling. In the morning we go to the transfer station. At night, Buckshot sings about “Domestic Times.” I’m largely around, mostly. I’m around! I’m around! TIRESIAS: Funding provided video liking kitten lips liking hidden gases glasses smudge onion fold door in on flying islands home. On in on an Ohioan in an New York minuet in on its sitting it’s flavor folded, it’s affords owning, the bowls. MANTO: All the doors in that town are unlocked. TIRESIAS: Wounded with a nursed health. Words, girl. Girl. MANTO: I feel myself grate on her. TIRESIAS: Failure crude crux, a stomach’s index, code. Holes win. MANTO: Except the honey light. It gutters over the shoulders of grasses. In a patch oddly colored, the shadows of early evening twist trees into silent gods. We were all nailed in place, and that place also was nailed. This is what we thought. More or less days bloom from it. The willow dwarfing the house. Naked. The naked willow, old, odd on its backdrop, while the whole forest swung tree after tree after Buckshot and me. We walked silently back from Jesus’ house. Intertwined with this, stilldistant crickets, the wind moaning against dead limbs. We set out upon the badlands, where swamps trickle over your face when you sleep, where spiders avert your gaze. All the while he was thinking of things that could bite him. Gnats. Ash and Maple and Pine swung across our path, some strewn some still steaming, and in one we both swore we saw his face, briefly, like the bit of a dream that hits you when you’re washing dishes. Heat. I know you would put it some other, some unusable abutment, snug in the fact of cohesion, pledged past the naked willow, the willow insensate. TIRESIAS: The interstate, the outer oscillations, the usual advertisements, the sure fluke, the surly usury, the dreaming lawn, the dreaming lawn, the dreams, the dish soap pores, the odd fallen gods, sodomy, obfuscation, fussy dust, fussy underlings, unnerved, unseated, understood tools, us, us, the dead fawn, the dead fawn’s skull, hulls on hills or echoed lures, or escape, escape from toxin, escape to trust, just burst, burned, urine bumps score where nest feels, sexual fields, flex as scented ecstasy, and essentially, and best, and terrorists, and terrorists, and
terrorists, and terrorists, and terrorists issued, soothing license to, the dew, the growth, the work the scurry, the curls, rust, grill, rust, the meat, themes, feeling real or reasonable, or feeling ill or gorgeous, or feeling fields erode, or feeling doors feeling doors, or feeling doors own, or feeling doors shoulder speckle, or feelingly freckled, or feeling doors, or spectacle, or essence, or spectacle, or essence, and context desktop sediment feelings, and conceptual guests, content gusts, content sex, content fields, the feeling fields, the feeling free, the feeling fields. The meat themes. MANTO: Red bumps where skin trills, I said, just before the big ridge out down to the open, to see the trees knocked over with roots upended; we thought of tufts of hair where pleasure erased us, just slightly thickened and staring out into warmer expanses, the whole time drifting through us, whispering past our thrilled skin. I remember a variety of birds. The sun curled over and between forest wallpaperno anxiety of copied trees lacing around us, forcing us still; instead, spectacle: the flavor of wind. Buckshot remarked on the age of the bottles we found. I said: on the path, honey, this feels like breathing walls, and slipping through to the original world, flanked by trunks. The platform below which we’re gliding even as we perform our days implies the Platonic, even if our deer path is strewn with ice of size. It rose and bombed every surface with light. TIRESIAS: Roses block heat’s runs over crescendo greens, seed levels; enveloped poles tuft thought essence gust, them guns bury close in flesh moons, Buckshot signs, a reign parched partially soothing meat, our whispering past; the feeling or essence feeling real, honey platforms, taken ageless via sun sun sun; our deer path expended, cresendo raptors, rapture pears slip wet knot skins; Jesus, glitter crucible, timber bitch supple touch bands all’s loud, all’s whisk car gunning it roads, the grunts, and fun scares fun scars, cars target cars, cars target temperature cars, cars are litter truths self cars, elf scars, all cars ardent fart gulls targets, targets ancient farts far afar from far, far and afar from, far, forms afar, far and afar from, forms, forms afar from prom, palm tar, far and afar, black hand; sacred scars, lips, sacred scared cars; tree flank guards, free, feeling sentinel, reasoning. MANTO: The forest has moods, as Buckshot relates; at times cradling, the closeness the density of trees and their shadows nesting; at times paranoid, cloying, the tree shadows wove tight over your face like death. TIRESIAS: The forest has roof, a warp star blunt, an engorged Johnson tumescent, cry fake gator rotation fun, cry grunts fruit fur, says, failure, administrative sins! Refrigerator, edges of offal, quartz embed, storm anoint coils anoint, coils cues anoint, fades grim tubes hails anoint, anointing anon and stabbed angular. Bats ask for it.
MANTO: By name? TIRESIAS: Man. MANTO: I breathe and want continuance. TIRESIAS: Consistency. Constantly. Concept. MANTO: Everyone is full of helpful advice. The trip in. I slog through humid brilliance, all the light knifeedged; I know I’m being argumentative, or losing sense in detail, but just try to stop it? TIRESIAS: Help health sell! MANTO: In a garage in Oberlin, Ohio; the only place to smoke. TIRESIAS: Rage shale lecherous lonely chords rock hard castles sacrificial suck smoke chords rock hard castles streaming aether thirds or grams of shale or rock hard god on rage, space saliva smothering malt cars trained rail blue pill. MANTO: Hurt makes him a brute, distanced from any gentle element. TIRESIAS: Tuber allusions grate, trails askance a climate. MANTO: The forest has roots. TIRESIAS: A brute, a mule. MANTO: Packed dissonance, as he’s grateful joy but also sorrowed. A grief bleeds out. TIRESIAS: A glut, suddenly, flushed butters, suspends. Bloods brute in brooded. Rebellious. MANTO: Or his great toys, his great toys at mast. The sandwiches factual, cold but delicious, and he’s noticed a new green beneath the sun. TIRESIAS: Bread filling puddles her drilled down walled into funnel cakes savage gaseous sandwiches, blare driven ground, to ground.
MANTO: To wake early, to report. He smokes a quick bong while the world warms up. She’s asleep, cradled in her own restlessness, as he confronts his violence. Hilarity ensues. He just gets home, back from Ohio, where his city was gone. A grief blurts out, brutal, primitive; the pain of being a man, some would say. The schedule maintains that this is the last book. The light was left on, and sugar dripped down the walls when he woke up. TIRESIAS: ...but when he goes walking in the wet world, the world of days’ rain, he notes the shape of every leaf in new growth, his thoughts oscillate over serrations, his thought cotton to the moist tips. MANTO: His thoughts cotton outward, somewhat up, the sky covered over with ashes. TIRESIAS: Sugar dripped down the walls when he woke up. MANTO: You know how we do. TIRESIAS: Where his city had been crows rowdy blond air. The hammock turned like a sail. Rounds of where Buckshot had mowed round around lucky wounds. MANTO: Licorice. TIRESIAS: Cycles, trials, the loops we spoon out to one another nude in sheets, wrapped in them. MANTO: There are cars also at times a lot, sometimes dripping. Buckshot mows the lawn sideways on a Wheel Horse tractor. It’s been raining a lot, the earth is very swamp, and her tires leave mud furrows looping through certain corners. He walks out onto the back deck to smoke. Freshly mowed lines. Her hammock like a sail. And on the front porch too on the concrete we bent over slugs, slow and blind and moist, leaving wet shadows. Tomorrow the rapture promises to solemnize infidels. The Arab Spring trembling with untapped hunger. At times he can’t stand the insistence of days. TIRESIAS: On some days. MANTO: He was lucky to be wounded as shallow as he was. TIRESIAS: He was lucky to be wound in cop clouds. MANTO: He was lurching over voluminous leaves.
TIRESIAS: Seriously talking over a naked bed. About his first marriage. MANTO: Cut to the hours before the Rapture. TIRESIAS: Here comes Jesus, carrying our fears dribbling from hands where holes are, here comes Jesus with his animal guilt, here comes the feeling that we can’t stay here, that we took one step too many over the precipice. Release the carb and a tart weight of smoke plows your lungs, grows. Buckshot refers to the shrinking of the world at night. What was your first marriage like? That’s not how she asked it, though. MANTO: What did you do to fuck up your first marriage? TIRESIAS: Not that way, either. MANTO: His first marriage, the jaws of which cherish no shrieking lemon, stank to high heaven the house up to Jesus. You left to soften plastic under the table, the trill of Vegas curled around her tight assonant scent, the shadows of astronauts loud across the blinds. He found her gagged in the hall. His throat had been slashed. Jesus was inside mixing up the medicine. Did you already know that? Slim trails traffic in her, silent elocution. TIRESIAS: He leans into her, executable. MANTO: He learns her. Her throat had been salted. These are more fresh. TIRESIAS: What did I do to fuck up my first marriage? MANTO: This was her first. You left to soften the fall; in causes or children. A lemon, off in the distance, starving itself of sugar, endlessly grinds her sockets. His perforations were nails bitten to moon quick in his blessing flesh. It rose. Where Buckshot sliced my back, trying to drag living out of me, trying to quicken ghosts, hasten sand. It works best when. And then when she wants silence. It works like feeling blessed. It works throughout the night. It works your screaming over fresh counters. The place you take numbers. It has countries without end, each of which is following you. I have already made statements about reflection. Tiles rode the spine highway, babies scenic, almost gold. TIRESIAS: Commented on your status. The ceramic span which is days compacted. Apt in savory veins, he trails off vaguely; the swollen afternoon snoozed around us, over our mouths the froth, ferment. This application has been attempting to contact you. Miles away, diodes
shiver. We can carry this in the air. We can send even this manner of cat begging on the sides of your hands.It works by blessing. By components comprised, nutrients input. When have you thought about those footprints just the easiest breeze leaves on us, our backs to our windows, our eyes screening? True, the forest was never really quietbrowned where Buckshot mowed, love burrows, we secret moundbuilders. But in a pile, living, living a pile across from us, in tempered branches? The moon rose in her flesh, compacted significance. Where cadence would enthusiastic, Asian morning compounded by green glistened with the first talk of birds. Where drifts pollen on Buckshot’s hammock, this billow green shelf is where she wants silence, as he does, for finding a fawn’s skull, coyote brains. Where it’s glistening, receptive. Where comfort contorts, where fringes gesture their loss of shadow. It’s older than you are so you must trust it. The drifts fill us to green paste now; he spoons the soil into the pot, presses seed. Pretty soon we’ll all be buried. Enthused, Jesus. Engorged. Where deft festering returns the stretch of your limbs. Where there’s thunder, sudden pitch. We’ve a rapid darkening where touched, where day blisters just beneath these entrances to your thoughts. Were we dusky, the excuses would cruise red lights. Were my sneakers in the solarium? Were the storms rabid, the lightning hopping, our hope for the future would celebrate heaven via postponed rapture. Were this and any other white, were rewinding a kind of kissing, were tersests to wear amulets, a lowered precipitation would encourage me, convince me I’m a valuable mate. Invisible, were we invisible, invisible, where we disappear, flow under, flood out, invisible, were we invisible, where, where we were. Invisible, where we were disappeared, were, but not now, not invisible, not, not invisible, were we invisible, we were, but we are not now, at least not fully, not fooled by now, not fully. It means thorough. Boughs boughs, boughs boughs. A rough a fun a splinter ingot, the outer ogre flown lower low froth, blower sewing blooming fuel. The booming from the backyard and the tin cans scramble and the tin cans scramble and the tins cans scramble and there’s sizzle, listening, fusion, the sooner loops and umpteenth moon unseen, a glottal spool. A pool in the middle of a meadow molding. A fit trim to where treading resists. As paths. As asterisks embroidered. As tables and their grain blond. He was into bondage; his own. His own blood raged, his blood caged by rain, some sun with some flow of green jets. Let’s imagine it. Let’s give up thinking just today. Let’s empty blessing bleeding fonts across some just green afternoon. Let’s fix forwarding, row blue overlay with Miles Davis, blow through Buckshot, ink from quill, pens as glands as sylphic amalgamations. At least not fully, the solarium. Miles is brawling, the drums talking a rub up, brushing along the blue tip blush of mountain spires. Where, my sneakers in the solarium? If the clever lemons can look quickly, the polite ointment may open more nights. Who explains easily, when Jesus changes the sick puddle to the station? We converse them, then we finally cook Buckshot's dirty sauce. Bored Boy... all strange coconuts at the quiet drawer were wasting with the solid night! So by then we were bleeding up and down our fronts, and Jesus was busily anointing us with sacred oils, swirling rainbow Cezannes over our open mouths. Let’s find a fawn’s skull in the most swamped patch of the woods. An awful swamp death, a baby. Our days go by much the same, without visitors, with
only each other for context; we mirror our selves for ourselves, selfcomplete, sufficient. Our days are bright and then dark but also bright again, every hour stamped like a toothy bruise on soft forearm. I have seen this myself. The ceramic spawn, urbanely sprawled across our mouths, a season of oils. Buckshot remarks on moths thrusting themselves on the light, crushing themselves for it. Let’s open each other’s skulls. Let’s open a shell and run commands. Let’s quell to the sigh of water in a ravine right next door. There are no doors there, though. More unique measurements. We can span feet, or miles; yards uncertain and likely dead by now, dead in the brain. Bold rain. You have to decide for yourself. Somewhere from somewhere, I hear somewhat motors. As dimness, at smallness, and shrunken, drugs. A rabid cat shudders through Forestville, jerking and hissing somewhere I imagine cased in leaves. The woods were wet this morning. I walked the organics out to a node of vines and limbs. Every leaf fat, working sun water into thought. The first hit is harder, and he wipes his runny nose on his sleeve, just like in school. This urgent new glitch is organic, our days opening each other’s skulls, his new understanding of aeration. The interaction was quite stimulating. She’s romantically bored; he’s old and too patient (not enough), slackjawed over simple living, and he no longer explodes. Pliable in response to her restlessness. So she snores in the bed in the living room, where we moved it. Or it just goes slack. Slow dissolution. Or a glacial assemblage? Let’s not think of these as separate states. That singularities become foreign to themselves from time to time. He finally noticed his glasses were on his face. I will express each thought as if I were holding it to myself. I will express each thought as if I were holding myself to it. By then, though, who knows? I do not like bodies without heads. Head without eyes, unquiet. Outside of seeing there is saying, and in what was said we rose and dialed 911. We dialed 911 and when it picked us up from the corner and animal pacing back and back, we asked to go back, will you take us back? We talk about you behind our back.
She squeezed lemon juice over the lawn, then went to see her mother. Standing on the back porch I noticed my glasses had fogged up. Head without eyes, for just some minutes, you can feel, too, if you try. It had gotten very quiet. No traffic in a while. The image of smoke, her father, his show snowing attention, tension in the temperature, too, as if everything’s underwater by now. The woods, quieting for dusk. The woods ripping in heat, in heat the light slows. Like, show me yours. Some bong hits on Memorial Day, some soldiers have souls that fluoresce, and settings pace around humanities reserved ordinarily for numbers. We could use the wood. You’ll find it hits better, Buckshot the Beautiful, the glory jutting shape, which I burnish slowemotional, show me mine and I’ll show you yours, encased in skin sacred with constellations, speckled, the spectacle. I can be bare chested almost, almost unashamed, thinking of the shadows others pull down my body. Woods ripple and turn in the heat. Definite articles add specificity. I performed some basic bong maintenance. I maintain among the mountains, and this here, this will survive me, and learn to kiss after death. I like laughing, and I want you to know. Shadows being the only relief from a 1974 madeforTV movie about a farmer with rabies, he thinks. It’s something you’ll just have to figure out. THE NEW YORK STATE DEPARTMENT OF ENVIRONMENTAL CONSERVATION HAS ISSUED AN AIR QUALITY ALERT... IN EFFECT UNTIL 3 AM EDT WEDNESDAY...There is the possibility to allow the following user groups to edit/change entries from frontend: you ran in here for that, softness wracked with afternoons, soon a glow ought to green, nearly panting, perched and buoyant. How did I know? Buckshot was drawing him, especially; she said it was a portrait, a character study. Then there’s the ease of dusk, implied threat, pink threads trusting the sky to be there each time she looks up, each time she looks up. I don’t definitely don’t like the sound of the bathroom vent. He started wandering without his glasses. Multigrain scoop chips and spinach dip mean lunch here, poised over bong next morning reviewing my autobiography. Let’s review: I feel no cursive for the virgins mordant reclusive but sulk granular and corn rock and crash brands through Buckshot’s sketch diary, as if having more words for it stills the bathroom vent. These snapshots of Yellowstone whether or not the character is sturdy pant and yawn after networked segments blend with Jesus. This is what people are saying. From my mouth out through the dough crammed neckandneck with his gold pockets tilled, grinning over with bulk grudge. In the morning everything’s on fire; it’s fine. Difficult writing is easy to read! This is why today is perfect for submerging yourself in these internal comforts. If anything, they're gaining strength while you luxuriate in your warm cocoon. For today, just keep plugging away, quietly and steadily, at whatever you're working on. Deep down, you know that you still
need a bit more proof that this is the real thing. The rubberband ball in your kitchen drawer is steadily increasing in size, and your scrap paper bin is just waiting to be put to a good use. Stuff your golden pockets with it, Buckshot, dress to the left and filter your goals through breathing walls of your warm cocoon. He just keeps plugging away, wracked with soft afternoons. Music, Robert Fripp maintains, wants to be heard. It will be centuries before you understand this. It is here I point out how days age on lawn; gold, gold, gelded flame, greased grains, flat temperatures of gold, gold, gold. Rust is also this color. His other would also speak English, but the shadows, the shadows drafted and bored along splintered walls, they know him from before, when perhaps to hear him talk it was not notable. Is this even doable, Jesus wanted to know. This is a grammar you will need after death. This is the color of age. How precious is the sun going down, wet with blurs, and how often will you need it to do this? Hmmmm, let’s begin. More than enough to listen to, the noise that space is, makes stretching, captured and sideswiped to the vulgar weeds in the dust of shoulders. Are you paying too much? Buckshot, as a secret to my longevity, my evil, what focus can ever level him, level him, when felt once sucked up in, level him with me, level him. Just venting, moist. Juxtapose upon this the jitters, jasmine in, jasmine in retreat to sky, some tendered, roots. Horded dunes, of which offseason trees, score new jihad, jaws fall along all trawls along or true. The herds backing up again over that tragic ridge, that terrible weakness we inherit of family plants, that faith in imperfection, that cut of moon that crux of sunless brethren, those we’ve former sunk. WHY DOES IT ALWAYS FUCKING STINK IN HERE? Some time, some time goes here. You’d think after all this time he’d find a better place to hide. Storm coming up, coming up the ridge, pinching early summer, pinching chills out of grouped clouds. You’ll have to hold me, just this way. Talk like this when I’m low, not today. Let’s assume the world goes on. This means books will be left to linger. Leaving lingering reveals mistakes. Did Jesus mistake me for the sun? We keep it coming. The page as soil, toys over gaps in span. I’ll try to teach myself English as a way to tease you. Is there use in speaking the same as mass? Gathering moss from stones, garnishing some sleep, garbled and bartering with the light. Grain.
Grail. History, simple mints, roaring over arcs of Buckshot’s, sampling tinnitus at the same time remembering, take the plants in. Before there’s heavy rain you must remember to take the plants in. This does not make burdens murder rooms. Too hot to compost, she says, though in the taller grasses mosquitoes solder histamine to religious heavy bites. Too hot to sleep peeled of clothing, arranged heavily bitten. I had a bad trip, woke up with my throat scraped for resin, and the heat of dreaming the dog needed out before I was hydrated enough to move dances nasty like homeless. Those lucky enough to be home by now go without shirts into grain; they pay for pages, the jail leeching off law, wow how she licks her hand to touch me, wow, heat, wild cars wounded like pop from the early 1980s. How did it feel, she wanted to know, bartering with light in order from left to right. It was okay I guess. I’d have to do the dishes now. Before you must remember heavy rains, take the plants in. Take pains, take pains. Monday morning, no rain, Monday afternoon, gradually thinking through truth. Buckshot whiles away these hours swinging in her hammock. If she brings grapes she will be Grecian. Dog at the foot, at the foot of the hammock, by hook, by criminal intent. How much can I expect to yield from the plants in my closet? This is not generally known, it’s estimated, and varies greatly by the way you treat them. They have this science of wattage and squared inched. The restlessness subdues her, doesn’t it? To calculate the entropy in passwords. Stealth. A lethal three of them, a tree or sutured. Systematically enumerating all possible candidates for the solution and checking whether each candidate satisfies the problem's statement, though storing in this small cardboard box dries them out.
I started to think in patterns, but because the sea was so far away I forgot the droning of emptied of sounds, the jut and cut of drowned. The trees were sutured or suited to him, though his own thoughts had long since ceased to follow any governable rubric. You thought you were so smart. We could very easily listen in on your silence as we could the continuing blush of sugars after she’s cut. As some kind of defiant juggernaut, some grail and thin grains, something classic yielded as needle smokes, needle trousseau, have yet to open it, meat dappled with crushed red pepper and the lepers waiting for Jesus by the flagpole all have something better to do, don’t they, you know it’s harsh. The restlessness, relentless, undoes her tipped over, got her afloat a score to fiscal music, gusts apart from troubles you and I both had between this room and the refrigerator, come now. Admit his captured rupture, she all have thin, whisper whisper, the grains just pontoon subterfuge. Just get up and go over to the television, which isn’t here, no more so than just concretion abrogates, just less or more appliance to this ice ground cup romance what done aspires to, believable. Justin Beiber. Likes a kind of diary. A very particular type of dialing. I’m going to ask Crag Hill if he knows what content is. It was contentious at best. This cardboard jewel box jewel lurches into a heat of days wadded to suffer childhood’s pandemic. So for sure we collect skulls, for sure those animals live with us. A fawn a coyote a squirrel and some boars. Even Jesus gets tired sometimes. Shortly, lengthwise, sideways. Even though the lamb lives with us lays down on us, pulling over us down under ourselves, yeah, it’s still very likely we will get cross and get tired. The bong is a placebo here, and pushed into the corner it rakes red. Negative clouds, cloud negatives, I carry memories of your teeth on my wrist. It’s like a kind of diary. I think she feels trapped under all the hours that have no structure; in that sense this is novel. I love you, all the mission it takes. You hold me and stroke the headaches out. Withhold. White and dark. To go to sleep to pull the lamb over, to go to sleep to go overboard, to go to sleep to sleep over, to go to sleep without parents. Go to sleep, to parent, to go to sleep.
To receive emergency assistance, press one to be drug tested, press two if you need no help. Help me, queen of saturation. Without their parents they clutch comforters to go to sleep. I’d like to like this again, please. Double talk from double tongues, as the parents say. This morning your father got stuck in our yard, as if by doing so it makes webs, and your father is a panic waiting to happen. I’m out there now, waiting to fill in ruts where mud has slid to dickens. I’ll let the parents know how I feel about content eventually, though it’s unusual to be loved by anyone. Mother was a lamb we would pull over ourselves, blinding ourselves, fooling ourselves into the necessary arrangements needed to tingle just somewhat in right arm? In righteousness a tedium melts under scrutiny, a need to urinate obvious plastic amphibian cranes, the lost toys that sold us to werewolves every milky night shivering bay windows, on the peninsula. I recall working on that code too, many year ago, before sea snakes came and rigged us to the sirens skinning the silence still alive while clicked send, spent. In the heat of the yard awash in last night’s rancid sex juices. Ah, Christ, it’s the dickens, I say, making webs out of the spit he uses to play his fondness jaw harp. Or standing still, resonating out the mouth, the mythology of thinlyetched changes. Standing on the shovel in canvas shoes. Standing while the sky and the air grow grayblue. There is so much to do, we’ve broken the ground near the barn, we’ve sweat and flies have touched us, we will push seeds into this ground we’ve broken, we will watch over fragile greens as they sugar upward, and breathe. We breathe easier for this. This which has kept us cycling through meat, that’s kept blood in our breath. Every morning we wake to face our ancestors. We wake to face our food. He slipped his hand over the bong’s tube. Though the evening had cooled things somewhat, he could still feel the salty ghost of the day’s sweat on his skin. Miles and miles of feeling organs. And all there was to drink was water, and he figured that was okay.
It’s like they’re all just standing around with their hands in their pockets waiting for the world to end. It’s a crooked gift. It’s what your father would have wanted. On the other hand, another set of fingers. On waking, he feels infernally good. The weather has cooled off somewhat, and, stepping outside for a smoke before work, he notes that the usual buzzing rash of insects is subdued. Buckshot has been awake during the night, and once again fallen asleep in her recliner. When he passes by, she pulls her blanket over her face. Soon, he thinks, I will move the flowering cannabis from their dark room into light. You might as well do this now. The coffee tastes thick and sweet this morning, and the light left over from dawn seeps through the grass. Though it hasn’t rained, there is the impression of moisture. Some of it. Soon you’re standing around with your hands in your pockets waiting for the world to end. It’s a crooked gift. Filling me, the escapade of moisture where bumblebees drift into poison, strewn along the front stoop. I help him with the mower deck, lifting it from the mud, licking the water from my palms. All these composers, cracking peanut shells with my teeth, salt dust brown salt dust blown, the bitcoin mine that progresses on idle cycling. In the closet the cannabis piles on flowers. The day’s gray sparks plug in to usBuckshot on the porch phones her sister, Jesus frowns on the Westboro Baptist Church, Charles Ives allows for the sketches in his ears. Following. The ants patrol our scabbed house. If I give the impression of moisture, it’s because I have long dispensed with verse and prose, and now creep along the earth with more of a sense of how to be crushed. Some of it. Soon you’re mouthing a bong, the numbness just before these broken lights silence you, a sentient hand across your mouth. All this composition, sopping with moisture routing, slanted and escarped although elongated, all as if snapping, passions sorting murmurs out. Dag, rotting. He preened his roots, he pruned the roads of rapture, he involved himself in crass insects. Crash landings around the creek banks were castles when sunshine sideswiped them, wiping us out. I was a smear there, the sides of a blue jar foggy with gothic sockets, baroque gold moisture collecting in Buckshot’s hair as she reclines full of blisterpacks of stars. The slope was poisonous, she maintained hotly. Still, even if crass insects knew more or less about rotation and transformation than he did, his health was noted for its side wise glare. Today I baked barbecue chicken breast for dinner, beating dirty dishes by switching up in my aeration, garden fork poised. I realized vaguely how hard I was, how torrential displays of raw emotion unnerved me, because I was interested in the unsaid, the things we couldn’t look at in our green shag living rooms with paintings of ships or cliffs looking down on us. Wracked with potential energy. The first time ever I saw your face, beaten dirty dishes side wise, spider wisdom, meaning there are ways to eat just from dirt, he said. The first time ever I saw your face just risen from dirt, we dreamed that the dead were eating us, sideways, spiced only by rhythm and due to becoming spacey. We are due. The first time ever I saw your face, I wasn’t anywhere interesting, there were no identifiable features, we were just collecting. It was the first time I ever saw the air of
your face. It was the first time I ever saw everyone oil is eating us. We are due in Buckshot’s hair, condensed as if in coils, iron writhing eerie reversals of agglomeration, aggressive not just when crossed but with fresh bleeding emotion. With fresh bleeding emotion there is instant messaging and sabotage for bacteria. I would like to be told how to move. I would like moods rising even faintly in a day’s sky. In my father the feminine interviews sorrow with timed just right. She went to get the car. It’s fresh with fixing. We must keep the greatest economy of effort in mind. Efficiency is unimportant. While on the treadmill I feel heat build in my skin to flower as sweat, ripples along my arms from within. Our way of life is at stake. Our culture, fenced in. Leslie sent me my angry stepfather’s obituary. In the photograph he’s smiling, looks just like a good old boy, friendly, country. Bloodwork. To release the pressure inside her, pushing out through her skin like her mother, a coffeestained bear, growling. Jesus sauntered out to the back deck for a smoke. Those nearing their midforties who are still flailing are still akimbo against the economy, the effort florid with acronyms. His relationship with the floor would shift often during his lifetime. There are flexible rituals on an invisible ridge. There are pinched ambitions, rustling hotly, blossoming into bats’ wings. There is coolish coffee and amorous fountain drainage. There are those nearing who seem mesmerized by grades. There’s Buckshot all the way across the lawn, working garden soil with a garden fork, in her robe. Earlier, he broke her treadmill. He was busy dealing in subdomains, sudden rains, sodden useless openings flanked by a white bucket at each corner. There’s subdued weather, without due dates. He’d scheduled a play date with aimlessness. We, I said, we are nearing harvest, our closet harvest, because every day this plant piles it on. I am watching her bend, I am watching her throw handfuls of seed. This will either take root or it won’t. I had a bad trip. Let’s remove fools, let’s smooth over venison shadow, let’s liaison with sentience itself, too, like a cobalt nestling just gelded and with enough legroom for two or us. There’s a nearness to rain that puts weight on your bones. There’s a pressure that light makes on grass that light pretends not to notice. This will either take root or it won’t. He would like to use bigger words for it. The vents in the bathroom in between which he hears her bathwater awe him to silence. On a related note, these are sound. You’re not taking depth into account, though. His account died when the juice stopped. the end of time had just begun. We will begin to grow our own food. We, I said, are caretakers of these flowers, we who follow light back to its terminus, and genocide becomes something ingenious to you, like a fantastic limb swinging over ropes and tires. He was busy dealing in waking up, watching day slink along the lawn. Smoking cannabis, growing cannabis, knowing these uses for cannabis that have slunk by unacknowledged. There’s a knowing in knots. There’s a kindly unseen growing all over that ridge that asks us to listen. I can almost hear the grass stretching. We mean in music and summon lots of solemn lulz. We read our soil to organize the zen of nerves until every wind tripping over us arpeggiates. The arc of sarcasm whirls us from arcane rules that break silently the simplest of noons. The lawnmower, long swathes of chewedup noise. In preparation for Buckshot’s father’s day. A steaming lawn, decocted by warflights of red birds. A man is trying to drown in the shallow end. There are debris of clean air, feelingly feeble. With Buckshot still
sleeping and there’s the memory of bonfires lit against normality. With Buckshot still asleep the workday swoops low over us, notched in the venomous wings like a hawk or a buzzard, eating the small things closed to the earth. Give me a few minutes, he says. I hit refresh, am sure of shedding something, purring alerts soft and folders against your legs. I skim grass at last. My skin is grinning with you. My skin is grinning with you. Ululations and obligations and ululations and obsolescence. The arc of the sacrifice icing on the low grasslands through which children twitch, as if asteroids rolled on top of the ridge transmitting beautiful grueling buttresses. We’ve been given everything we need. Collapse asks the blurred sky to bend around, reaching for hills that bob in place. Sleep reaching across me, the space of me warped like time. My time empties into sand while we murmur at the solstice moon. A solstice moon lolls on top of infected clouds while we laugh, knowing for sure that bats won’t tangle us, wrestling with alms and limbs. Alms cluster in the crooked lures of trees brushed with light’s moons. It will come to me. It will come to me. Buckshot argues about the collapse of civil society with her mother on the back porch, I fill our small sink with searing hot water and slick soap. The space of me timed just now. I love her involved talks with her mother, and that everyone in her family is convinced that she is a genius. I’m convinced. Though last night her father was surprised at the quickness with which I had our fire lit. I used only lint and cardboard. Is it sad that I’m happy when it rains? We’ve been given everything we need. But in a low clearing. Leaves overtake. Leases overtake. My leash as enforced by my creditors goes at least this far. I’ve been using admixtures for my smokeat first, orange lion’s tail flowers, now leaves from a culled male cannabis. Buckshot’s insomnia makes an astronaut of me in my sleep, playing Tom Waits soft and just below. We will picture everything under water now. We will approach scoldings with kneedeep jerks. At the peak when Eddie leaves the cat twirling on the floor the cat arrested for hacking into your thoughts, but think about it! The cat arrested for succeeding. I’ve been waiting for this storm all day. I’ve been there, waiting for the miracle, waiting for the miracle to push her way from the soil, green and relentless, no conscience and no sentiment, rooting even near the house, even near the house. As civil society collapsed I started to segue into another means of transport, a measured avowal in the bloodbrain barrier. I was using just lint and cardboard. Together we’ve timed this space that’s me just rightseveral coincidences occupied us simultaneously. A solstice near eclipse fits just as regularly as butter numbs us, take me away from here, Mama! Take it away! At least my leash goes this far. The wrinkled deep green, the sea of which, chilling, aches of farflung murders rustle in your hedgerow. Don’t be afraid. It’s all going to be all right, I promise. I’ve always been here. You, too, watch anxiously those rapt reflections, going slowly feral while storms absent themselves in order to unwater the gardens. Watch it! Catch it! The latch where smoke touches blood curls out from under us. You know that’s pretty sexual. The model used here of interactivity is simplistic. The white clouds. The wide alms our limbs excuse. There are hinges on the mist, you touch and swirls open, you brush against us, maddening. Water standing in one corner of the garden. What gauze? Where a gaze enacts sacrifice of his outer skin. To confirm daylight, almost: in the morning, he, walks out
across the rolling grasses, to, check on the sprouts, freshly vulnerable, he, reflects on, these small, things. Whatever depends on them is deposited here. Interdependence. In lapse a palsy slaves over hot alms. Hot alms, hot arms, halt limbs, hot alms, hot loam, hot alms, hot fault. It’s not your fault, these quakes, these wakes, raking over our prim crawlspace. I can’t unwater our garden. The inexorable with its sexual dystopia meets her halfway through the crisp fields. A slave to paisley raises the dead leaves from shrivel to etched. There’s a distance not at all an alienation, too. And you’re still wrapped up in those reflections of the day of rapture, too. You’re still ravishing in your destructive drive for salvation. And everything we salvage! A hush, one limb, bins of clocks all stuck in striking at once; something else entirely having everything to do with your father, a hill, abandoned babies. He’s most like a large baby. He’s most some of this. THE PERSIAN SIBYL: He’s surely some of us. THE LIBYAN SIBYL: Leaves lure, leaves lure curls, leave lures curled, flutes. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: A luxurious ambiguity. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: Acclimated, we become suspiciously limber as the porch light goes out. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: The thrift of it, enough of the thrift of it. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: Fruit. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: A culture sublimated, held between lip and gum. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: The leaves collect the light, and then. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: Bubbles pearling up from filled with water. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: Enough! Boughs THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: To try it on for size, obviously. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: Selfishness of the egoist selfGod. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: She’s a little worn out and needing quiet, I suppose. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: What is in drones? Orderly fashion.
THE DELPHIC SIBYL: Selflessness, when blankly, when whitened. She’s worn and furrowing. THE LIBYAN SIBYL: Noone will ever count these. THE PERSIAN SIBYL: He’s surely smoking. THE LIBYAN SIBYL: Trying it on for size. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: Blank. White. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: And with the cycle of sleep and waking we taste it. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: Delicious! THE SAMIAN SIBYL: ...just like cherry cola. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: Cold smoke breakfast, try it on for size. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: An anxious white cat. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: The attack of which THE LIBYAN SIBYL: Swirls, like you’re mixing something. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: There is less than initially thought, which is more than enough. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: All to selflessly entertain others – vanity, fame, recognition, all of these things are shadowed by our desire THE DELPHIC SIBYL: The signature of civil society by then will be the scent of woodsmoke. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: I feel we could just as easily stay home. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: At this point the subject listens to old radio shows. At the edge of the sprawling stone ruins we caught up. This isn’t a natural composition. They wouldn’t know about atomic energy here. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: It was uncomfortable tonight while she remarked on her father’s recent indiscretion.
THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: Driving off the rat. For a long time he sat near the fire, rolling and readjusting branches, watching them smolder, wrinkle, split, blackenafter a while he’d opened a vent of flame, a little red mouth that gibbered restlessly at the trees’ throats. THE LIBYAN SIBYL: And whatever it was was coming straight for us. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: It’s because I recognized some of my own reasoning in his account. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: And even then, seldom, but by and by. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: There’s something sticking out of the mailbox. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: I seldom take more than I needthis is what he wanted to say. The door of their mailbox had only one hinge. Ginger mills belching black clouds along the river. Not here. Not here. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: The attack, which THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: The subject, jettisoned, scorned, washes her feet with sunshine. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: It's hard, perhaps, to recall that once sex was—in the ideal—radical politics conducted by other means. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: It’s because I recognized some of my own reasoning by his account. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: Two more by the magnesium works. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: Sometimes he conducts this by other means. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: I’d let the evening crawl in through the windows. I’d let the light boil down to crusted sugar. I’d let a rigorous schedule give definition to beefsteak. I’d let you fix me fried eggs on toast. I’d let being born coupe the yard. I’d let the touch of war yawl on storied floors. I’d let you trap me in narrative. I’d let my own introduction to Aristotle lapse. I’d let you induce vomiting. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: If I were you, if I were you.
THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: The vent, the flameprying mossed wood, prying twined blinked planks, frying kindling, frying weeds. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: Every so often he comes to and remembers to watch for bats. A long haired chocolate cat. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: By and by, bored with fire. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: The gods in the fire wear birds. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: The gods in the fire seem to get along well enough, though some would say there’s too much quiet. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: In general he takes comfort in silence. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: In the end it always is. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: The educated compost their silence. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: Just leave your cigarette butts in the sink. That’s fine. That’s just fine. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: It seems I’m on fire. It seems the fire is below me, and above me. How would you comport yourself, in this situation right here? There’s a great deal to be learned about being your saviour that I hope you don’t have to know anytime soon. Everyone needs a little protocol. At the next port of call, I’ll be more particular. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: Parttime lover, fulltime girl. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: Would he ask a married woman the same question? THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: He would. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: I am married to remedial mathematics. At the next port of call, we meet fascinating danger. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: At this rate. He couldn’t afford art. At this area, trains and aimlessness. He couldn’t afford art. In this place, scrapes with genitalia. Scratched in.
THE DELPHIC SIBYL: ListenI want to tell you about what’s real. But there’s all this bullshit. I walk around on top with sweatpants on. I waltz through sports reporting like it’s missed its own callingto be sports reporting. There’s all this bullshit, and I need to tell you about my paint pinked nails. I’d need to tell you about shipping and handling. How much would it cost to send you a message? At the next port of call, I’d felt that we definitely should wear darker robes. Sway blindly, if you can. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: At least once, please. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: By and by, bored with fire. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: Would he ask a married woman the same question? THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: A gold drench, a yard rinsed citrus. Day’s decline. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: In the morning, though, all’s lemon. Our siamese willow, she maintains, split and writhing around ash, filters the sun with sharp tear leaves. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: Flames are wiping away plants. Setting aside our diffidence. I would know what approach of church all this green could be if I could ask a married woman if a closer afternoon runs deadeyed through errands just for shadows patched against the barn, in weeds. Burst warmth on legs, syrup in blistered, symbiosis. Diodes noir unsuspectant expatriots. Painted stale granules, arguing, undulated dual illusory, sucked up out from under order roses bush bloom blunt on top of aggravated luminescence. A mule lunged at could numb buttress esters. The eaters read. The weather, tenth in line, fired for frying, aghast in chambers that sandwich thick labor between crude process and corpses. It gives a chance to melt. To reflect on a hatred of communication... THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: ...is to attack witches with embers. Remember, it was you who had protein in thick air like carvings. The cravings were worst in the evenings. Everything on the level, on the make. I would love with my eyes sexual and smug but it was only the window I saw. All I ever see is my eyes! The aether bleeds. What, is this my grandmother, pulsing with critique? What is it in you that wants to establish so much distance, enough to swing? In those miniature hours, nearing 2AM... THE DELPHIC SIBYL: ...the cravings, starvingthe darlings were always lighting fires for surprises. We at the time could only watch as huge minutes passed before our very eyes, solid, like a diorama set in an icehouse. Diodes lope through our forests, deadened by nights. If I had been more sexual and less smug, I would have honked if I had a question about the global
emergency. As it is, syntax grows crude between oiled fingers, snapping in time to a CPU. The pieces of the puzzle really started to fall into place then! I could finally stop my licentious posturing and go back to deciphering gurgles in urine. Maybe run ears on gravy allegiances almost bellicoselook, I want to tell you something, I wiped away all the plants here, the earth shudders when I speak. I wax on and wane aimless, I wade drowning chorus ropes over flowered crocus balds. And yet... THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: ...these orange swamp flowers, some flaming lily, wall the ridge in. Nothing dead lasts the night. What I have to tell you won’t be remembered in the conflagration of salmonmeat dawn. Takeru Kobayashi, I noticed, grew crude between my oily fingersit wasn’t unexpected, but it was also wholly new. The ashes settle in the waterpipe bowl. The smoke from it lit his head at an odder angle than we’d previously been led to believe. And we refused to drink. He’d waited until the rains cleared out to hear for once the solid frothing of the area’s many waterfalls. Gravity unfurls in steps on the invisible ridge. Poetry is to her the only argument for intoxicationto prove this, I magnify light, but still see only my eyes. High winds had scattered again the pieces of the puzzle. Back to the erotic postures. Back to our rotting pastures, our fields fetid and erasing thoughts. He often worried about the methods he would comprise, and compositions caulked alone or in Northern eastward. When she woke up... THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: ...the dialects of affection disintegrate in a binge inside seldom the self kept scatological cogs sung what flurry growth worrying recliner bitten flood dust food crown locked up in soul doubloon faded drafts that fart integrated purge lapping up at edge of water bowl louder and louder dollars furry groaned Takeru Kobayashi or over reverberation slasher cat ran up huge foam bill lips on melon cracking sadness behind personality ice which owns crowd solstice after he couldn’t crawl wadded up and hinged... THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: ...crawling louder, something windowed, crawling wider, something in our willow, our willow launching justice, our windows laundering, our wills have meandered, our wish gritty, with delicacy, with rough nuns, with rustic numbness, with a rush of the inevitable, the inexorable, the knowledge that does not bend, the knowledge that feeds us, the knowledge juxtaposed over volute truths, selfevasion, our homes invaded by windows, our homes evaded by willows, crawling longer, something fruits widows, something fruits crawling onward, something forward, too familiar... THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL:...like a white cat, pinknosed, jaundiceeyed, just outside your eyes while you drip off to sleep... THE DELPHIC SIBYL:...which was difficult for you that night. There were geometries whittling the trees away over by the fire. Tubes that blued with viscous smoke when you inhaled.
You burned through a lot of the wood you’d gathered, long gathering moist bugs since early spring. Early spring, and midsummer’s bastard artifice. Articulatedshed bends at both arms, one eye is a rocket launcher. We hold these truths like votive candles we were born thus, whispered, thinking: from love we come to love we go, from love we come and back around, to love we go, through love uncomprehending the myth that a star landed last night close in the woods. With additional fireflies... THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL:...that punctuate smoke. In my head I’m writing a long letter to my mother that starts: I had a bad trip. How proceed? Please advise, this ripple of trapped smoke in my throat tears up when I hear guitars rusting thick against primal anonymity of her fuck science bouncing while I push in swim, on dew. These tubes, how do they work? Dough ruins numb with rust, the knowledge that bends everyone, hey, good sunshine, we’re all refracted at the waist. Takeru Kobayashi moaned as the hot dogs split. I am hiding from rooms. Your comment has been posted. He rubs the plants out, out by the garden inhaling. A cultured odor, in ascending or descending orderfor we can never be but young, once we look up from this heat on the earth, she’s cracking, she’s moaning, Takeru Kobayashi! Take me through these dark thick vines, over the crisp ridge, the crest of decay accented by sunsets nursed by outrunning streams. Meat fields, the sustained energized deadend, voltage cripples vowelsounding long aims at arms lengthening clipped beats. Kissing with controls, soaked in ordinary fetid grasp, can I mud you without you or what, humming this gilled religion while the last daylight wilts, wills us, excuse me if the punch is nothing, from love it came to go to love. Poor old Lewis LaCook, he wakes to books, to improbable capitalization. A king of silk and tempers. A star lands on the last night of the world, in the woodsshe hears it, ceases tearing her body in her mind for a moment to murmur of cardboard men. I hate that they’ve put this on her, an expectation of sexual difference, as though she were from Venus unenthused, and there’s little to soothe these exaggerated dimensions. You think I fear eating pussy. Rather than by a line or a hidden blank. Clinging to spills and tremors. In his silt slippers, purposed as hell. Propagation via lividity. The prosecution elects aroused sour girls from the general population. Tom Suhar is fighting his own life, always. Man, how I hate talking on the phone. I haze, balking, calling reels of defunct magnetized tape from my kindling. When the child of morning, rosyfingered dawn, scores an eighth, only the rocks live on an ephemeral latitude where fruit drools from clotted hands. I bake away the earliest morning hours, with Yelawolf soul glued to netbook speakers by her. Speaking. A fuzz bass. Strips of linen fight his life. I lever the dildo with another finger altogether on the button. I make a heat by moving. Vroom, she says, sweating roots whistling hot drawn cock, horse floats glowed walls up in organic fragility. But of course wool’s an ocean, a coral arousal silking along the dorsal, my basal reader my arm trailing green cracked in the woods, on which we place a Bible...
THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL:...to be read by slivers of sky dripping down mum trees. He’s torn because he won’t wake her, he doesn’t know when exactly she slept, but there’s duty, too, and a warm scent roaming over the ridge that he can barely remember. They’ve been fightingshe’s been puckered because of how she understands men, and his speech is ungainly. He’s always blurting out the worst things! I think he just forgets how to be present. I think he forgets how to sit still, in this moment, not even waiting. I think he forgets how light and sound are intimate in the minutes before clouds. Knowing this, she’s dusted the world today with burnsthe black palate pale with light, stretching but shrinking with each recitation, each call and response. It does no good to read poems. Stands, almost natural amid the grass, animals who spaghetti to bombs bursting in air, melodic paradise. It does no good to read poems. This morning. The heat along the real lawn repeals citrus pollen. Cold bong dripping loose smoke toys his feelings until they’re raised in shameless shampoo horns. Sometimes when I walk the ridge with a stick I remember my slight ancestors, rising from thorns of beds to gather and track a food. You think he’s playing? Vroom, she says, sweating it out over the whistle of dry roots. She doesn’t trust men. All men shallow out on high banks, while she rolls forward hipheavenly, as restless as Mississippi. I’m a hot drawn locket, cocked with Buckshot, quivering over whipping the hammer. Singing so as not to get shot? At the top of the hill in the woods herethere, a pump of dried vines, ticking. Brown and crowded, space shutters in the forest to the rhythm of trees. It goesbreathe, don’t, breathe, don’t, breathe, don’t. He comes back at dusk... THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: He would. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL:...and things aren’t quite so jolly. Worry. We can’t always rally at the sun, sinking our vegetable garden until only the broad pumpkin leaves chew up the light and spit out new green. But she doesn’t trust men. She was stung. Both of us have a rabid belief in our stainhood. To be small, or smallish. People are disgusted by some children, and some children vine in other directions, away from the sun. This is how I can see without eyes. Right through the house mix, throughout the boards haltingly gliding, needles gender the youngest, where underground gourds guard whack paper genitalia. Or, what sucks from sunshine, disgusted kids flicking raw cigarettes into flowerbeds, that’s what you get, you sleep of flames malcontents have disturbed substance. He’ll make you dizzy with that. Yes, I would. As to remixing as a way insidewhere when clouds howl top of her head off, sillied with moonfruit, and having rivulets drawing off the evolution. Brrr! Bursting with the brunt of engorged sunny days, singed by citrus, each a rictus sustained by permaculture, each a permission on the ridge, a gingerly interval. Some of the children vine from the sun. We train them against rodsviolently straight. Evidently. Can’t you hear the cymbals in the next room, symbolic like cauldrons, all lounging in kneeling rows or waltzed into aperture? The apes over the ridge creak in wind that promises rain but instead just dries itself, death always twirling with rouge on unkempt pessimisms, with plumage somewhere secret stays frightened at low deliberate gliding bats
eating crawled over sky. Cocked with buckshot the hammer ripples. And we didn’t even have any chicken nuggets... THE SAMIAN SIBYL: ...but little did it matter, as the land rolled green around us, at times crushing, at others swaddling, cradling. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: A wall of aperture, an ape’s opera. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: He would. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: I go off halfcocked, and explode into space. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: I am married to remedial mathematics. At the next port of call, we meet fascinating danger. THE LIBYAN SIBYL: Every gesture calibrates the pressure around us. She’s almost afraid to breathe. That’s slick, the topography young tied down to blamed shadows. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: Lame crevice, warble cars from gullets lagging intrepid down Route 39! THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: Each gesture ruptures here. THE LIBYAN SIBYL: The earlier tools were toys. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: My hands dry out, and the creek dries out, and the drought dries out. Rain players crawl locked in place in streams of sunshine. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: Your thought dries out. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: He lives in blunt seams. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: He would. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: He lives the brunt of what he seems to be. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: Allow him to learn what you have learned, here, through this rivulet communique.
THE SAMIAN SIBYL: Gold harvest under a silver moon. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: Practicing guns. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: Your thought, shot out, lights out, your faults. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: What tectonics determine. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: Let’s stop pragmatically. The hour is too early in algorithms. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: Practice grams. Grandfathered. Sirs risk searing reassurance, reupholstered, sheathing of guns. He’ll use his palms again, no longer marked by ramifications obfuscated with cutting trysts. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: I’d make a study of her moisture, because this is what humans do. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: Capture the innocents? THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: The rapture’s come and gone, and still weeping traumas assemble in stilled lives. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: Moving where? THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: Locating the hawks on a spread air. Below us, sprawl of war crux. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: Banana. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: Banana hawk, still weeping drains down Route 39, to the very maw of water. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: Does traffic unhinge her? THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: Facts stand us upright uproarious, braided nicked felts with stable plastic cotton. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: So it’s more the fact of traffic?
THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: Fractures, residuals, duncolored flames. Every surface, ask it of me, her moisture plural with religion, limpid and mercifulsyrup of purr union and musterer of graceful clip. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: As a young adult I compacted rapture with decoctions. Greenery bounding somewhat where between my spectacle and my rage there lies false sulphur, compounded from rakish computers. In this way I form personalities, couched in mud with Quentin Compson. Cuttings of mustard flower, wolves with infantdelicate petal eyelids, where Buckshot’s sleeping, where the air leisures on childhood’s corpses. A lesion and kept up to yourself and a drum new with timing. These spiders experiment with dropping down from the ceiling, raised dead of bugs. There’s a long gray one on the back porch. There’s nothing under this silence spinning room to room howling. Natural sources of potassium. Cults. Wisdom. There are wishes gushing from her mouth clouded with breath and thickened burled rubbing dusk out of your muscles, running the risks across your torn face, the grapes are all dead and gone. As a young man code oiled the yard with genetic flinch. I’m sitting here waiting for work to begin the real work of. Windows obscure windows. With a genetic flourish he finished them, spackled with echoes and choices premeasured to seam marks where wattage crossed. The wear on ear marked scents. The willow, steaming with adroit carols, accents wildly whenever she pulls her shirt up. The scent of our liaison annotated the shabby room. Parts of the sky had already crimpled pink. Hey baby, she says. I reach for the gun just as the curtains attain twanging maple sugar. Burned churns, boiled choices. Cheap echoes! Bleached bones! As if, even into summer, dead leaves shout to the ground. Truly, he’s smoking from a stone, in a cicada bath in the back yard, saws off distantly, grinding spaces between overgrown. It hasn’t rained for weeks, though the sky blanches periodically, and the speed of the slip into august is serenaded by bug chatter. The seeds uncurl underground, stand to swallow light. How can I cut that stump with my axe? You reabsorb it. This one just crawled out of the swamp. He was almost complete. Tears on your face a risk the seeds swallow, lovelocked, rootbound. My love rocket’s last scheduled flight due to budgetary concerns fizzles right there up against your posture as you sleep. How could I stump that tree with my slack? The drum knows the timing, mint village barber, full of slake. The tables appear normalized tonight. On them, envelopes tweaked to fuzz gallop toward polarities unheardof during your father’s lifetime. Her tart speech is sometimes barbed. We are charcoal or oil, depending on exits. Caulk. And within chalked outlines we calcify and tame vines across wilderness sticks. Height: 8 pixels. And thus firmly in the document’s flow. We try to be welldocumented, demonstrative, but the archivists over the unseen ridge grin with silk missionaries. He’s never tasted the juices, the speakers say. In the morgue. Gorged on sour growls, on sired flank cache, airedout stalls rolling foil loam upon and below. I bellow, I fork, I scald those drab stars out of your eyes with my, with my aimless change, restless like the vines as slow as creeping, upward, against this stick we both cling to, to not get swallowed by all this exploding flesh and burst scent. Seriously. Honey sun, licked from lawns. When watering the
garden, he understands that he takes part in an old strain of his human heritagethat the cities, the machines, would not exist if it weren’t for these acts, this magic. The fan leaves dry hanging upside. Pulled back by sleep. Lopped off, looping. Do what thou wilted. By dint of liquid and some chronic distance he saves the cucumbers, no longer bent, no longer weak. Let’s work on nausea now. Work on a dilution of the futility of the football. No points for meI’m innocent, I swear! I have a buttonclickcallback methodslick, brittle, and aching with verisimilitude. With a generic flourish I whittle them. The ants blindly tickle me when I’m barefoot on the front. As a young adult my dullard raillery against cutting null suffixing from the grain of cloud fowl wolfs down pizza ambiance, ambulance boiling tar pigeons. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: By the white chickens. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: I’d like a little more progression. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: Sssssh! THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: What? I’m holding my hand over the bong’s mouth, impeding breath. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: Does it work on nausea? THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: It works via aviary. When the white folks go home. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: Home is her. Here, some new sprouts for your white bucketrainbow eggs, painful doldrums, late afternoon lunar with purpose. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: Chasin’ another train. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: She’s. At. Her. Sister’s. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: Thickened water clacking like the doll’s nails on kitchen floor. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: All’s frail in love’s palsy sophistry. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: Giving the illusion of depth. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: I could persuade the county coroner. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: The illusion is death.
THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: There are the days I grapple with my own brain. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: Love’s pasty affluence, partly broiled. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: Noone could take me away from her, this fit, congruent urgencies agape from free. THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: Blood in Oslo... THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: I sleep and restart the day, if the air pushes me down. I hug into myself in a red room’s bed. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: If I read the room correctly, erections dervish fingertip plumb with ash from askedfor stone pipe, a lake of which where the worn and civil unionizing will seize Oslo from the jaws of an empath’s cough, or onions. Sonograms here replace the more traditional aquatic leer. Almost like another world of beasts, each more beautiful and hung deep with authenticity. There are walls within the thumbs that predict incisions along the upper thorax, and anyone trying to tell you otherwise is a douche. Even the insects there, even the insects, but at night we have these lamps, I think their Finnish, and there are groaning flotation pronouncements in a sad, halfglistening voice, oiled and awaiting hot cock. On the edge of a shaded wood table. A shame. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: Uh. Well, you’re obviously into parodies of rhetoric. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: Just to make you nervous, I’ll bet. Lewis is viewing. Lewis is viewing. Wooing is human, blue, cousin to sustenance and a fabulous little box for beginners. Wooing is neighbors, or aiming at to maim or, or flurries. Your blue cousin is trying to get in the window again. While you’re nailing the last board into place, pop culture rots. There’s very little erotic in these transmissions, stuttering chants, all asterisk, carving drool out of a hostile totality. I’m being charitable there. It’s more like there’s thumbs too busy predicting cherry nipples to take notice of those somethings we taste evenings around here, some bruised sugar dissolving in place. At a full and warm gallop we could perhaps reach these tiny fish by the time the island envelopes an entire froth of Crisco. Leave me alone. Coming in at number four. THE LIBYAN SIBYL: This dancing was the first rain in a month, or a heat tongue on your face against cold water shock. Seneca cigarettes in breast pocket, the ease at which we trade breath. We eat. Noah Lennox. We eat. The solarium mellows like compost wintersholiday lights, a candy grin, a fudged laughter. The lighter, blue as the children rotting, spilled across the curb.
Because it happens to everybody. We slip to lower registers. The smell of lessons embroidered in your guts was not so bad, considering your guts. It’s called that because the ridge would be completely hidden by trees if not for settlement. Kestrels, or sessions far from gruff air. The educated spellcheck bounces sickness all over folded towels. I’m angry that my disabled husband is having panic attacks! This bong is full of new harvest. I chant to y’all in all asterisk, blistered by a codex in which chills mismanage fiscal raiment. Naturally, darkness was on the face of the deep. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: Go learn how to communicate using only light and shadow. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: Painting, in those years, rained like erotic misfire from platitudinous trucks. The shades, they say, slip out at dusk, when the crack between the worlds widens. They know how to navigate the land of the dead. Their tongues are memory. I carry a slim black plastic card that acts as a flotation device in my skull. The shades, they say, never really manifest fully their posture is a blur, flooding by with the rhythm of dry years, the cackle from Autumn leaves. Dragging the ash of the day behind them, they practice dissolution in the lost roads in the village where we sleep. While you were away, awful things went through the minds of everyone you know. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: Also, everyone you know is alone right now, letting the sound of the refrigerator running fill in the spaces you people with safewords. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: Ouch. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: They practically pass out. They bring pillows. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: How do you know what you know? THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: Rhetoric is a parody of something else, maybe. THE CIMMERIAN SIBYL: Because sleep is a buttonreboot, reboot. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: To reposition, positively, to begin again. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: I have to go search the woods for a sunny spot. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: Is your sleep nutritious? THE SAMIAN SIBYL: Landlordproofing the house now.
THE CUMAEAN SIBYL: Fiefdom, kief, thieves on foot, suspects. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: We could go on together with suspicious minds. THE LIBYAN SIBYL: With suspicious minds? THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: Minds that erect chronic walls. Minds that eject from seats airplanes melting into ice to smear over the deep. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: Softly, with the ticking of lighters, away in the waste. THE LIBYAN SIBYL: Whitely merging in a corner. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: I wonder obliquely if casting a shadow is ethical here. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: Softly, the beats like rain fists, beads of painful winds sloughing so quietly the white folds us into clean heights. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: That’s meant more to thread the essence in a downbeat, trod following tread like a running flummox, as if the grin inside the fact of you existing here blames some part of us for the bloody drum of sky, already snuffed. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: Give it away, now. Give it always, know this, you know this, it’s given, a given, it’s given to you. My fingertips hurt because I talk too much. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: I give to the slow sky an attention for attributes. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: Ice in the bong, sky smacks of delayed rains. Allow him to believe in positive outcomes. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: He’s allowed a use of fingertips, and brain delayed by flummox, causeway trails. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: The day was shaped like cotton. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: It was lemon and evasive. THE DELPHIC SIBYL: We were simian and accustomed to it.
THE LIBYAN SIBYL: With suspicious minds? THE SAMIAN SIBYL: The hollowedout bits of brain ask you to shut all the lights off, the sun interviewing long grass. THE LIBYAN SIBYL: Long grass intervenes. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: The interesting thing is, noone’s WRONG. THE ERYTHRAEAN SIBYL: Along and beside us, astride the clothesline. THE PHRYGIAN SIBYL: We could go on together with suspicious minds. THE LIBYAN SIBYL: With suspicious minds? THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: Systems itch below the splint. We had a blessed life together. Someone’s sleeping. We had an essential eye together. THE LIBYAN SIBYL: I see. THE SAMIAN SIBYL: Everything I eat she eats, and everything I live in and through she also lives in and through, and I live her, through her skin. THE HELLESPONTINE SIBYL: We are rich in this, a din of needless animism, patrols that drop from the edge of the planet like wax. We stitch together childless divisions while the night oscillates to a pink sound. The body of the earth. To wake just as dawn does, just when the sky’s lifting and to burn off dark husks. Childlike, divisive. If I eat one hawaiian baby woodrose seed, sedation within the psychedelic strips a mundane caul from the yard, permitting vision. That’s why it rained. The wax planet abuts real mojo. What plants? There seems to be some controversy surrounding a picnic. She saw me and popped up. How do you spell ‘tush.’ The blush blue to the sky, ululating on top of hot hills. You wear that cracked hat like a viol filled with stares. For stars, we used wax alms, handed to us throughout the night by the canes of the blind, in a metronomic clot. As the city spread, dispersed, respiration emptied. When you hit the ground, bells and whistle gain melody from whole foods, into my mouth, and everything I keep sharp. Parts were debating with my body. Your brain is god. The arrogant rain impales lesson plans for calling action castrato. This implies ivy everywhere, an evolution of truancy. Likewise, plague. The brujo, sexual with juices tuned to the ripping of bonfires, simples with grisly actualization the chum of greased healing. I mean it. The great wave washes the beach. Smudged
glass dreams through his skin, crushed stricken bracelet, casual Andean elixirs velvet troughs like hungry. Like a nation, bloody crinklecut said to mud, was something brushed up on me here, or has regard for the death someone I know eats, candle wax, hasn’t it? Parts of my body are debating with my body, parts of your body are crushed and vent to a slant. Slander. Fat grapes, fatal anal, the canal in the cabal’s street all frothing and garbagey. Certain phrases, in parentheses, can’t convey what a belt blunt and hot on you that night sings. The great waves are lessons of stuttering. We break in chords, and of course someone always enables the gray trains. Someone says things to me similar in content but quite foreign in intonation. You have to travel a long day before the death you regard can rage at night under the cracked halves of stars. Do you mourn the tolerance and frail aptitudes? Does the lack of cities pinch like warm muttering to herself, hot freckled breathing, hard dreams getting totally peeled across these pews. I must have sat down someone said, someone says it’s sitting downsized in the drawing room. We keep waiting for these feral blocks of sky to desist. Sister, we left these women in our dreams, because of the damage inherent in us. She wants to believe this. The blunt belt banded and absolute sojourns in porcelain. Pork fat tans absolve dissolute training wheels. Leave us, I say, to our affirmations, I say, and both of us stick in an elevator north of Bemus Point, a road’s throw from topiary maps. A row through. Just mix the water and the wine. Arrow throat, or thorax candy. Nearly divine in your grammar. See, I put these things together and they are. I wonder, though. The day you were born. There are memories in the fire between shadows. There are fires in your memories, your childhood is on fire. Here, there be fire, there be memory, there be sluggish depth of washing cicadas. And there, see how these trees have fallen over, and are propped up now only by their neighbors? You must have been born in the morning, it has nothing to do with me, and yet here be monsters, collapse of unnecessary space. For aren’t we all just accessorizing space? There’s a whole span in the back rotting with straw. It’s an aluminium can we use to shoot targets at, gaped, gapped. The alderman calls his wife. What rough beast in the burning shadows gnaws at the lawn? The albumen. His first album is so much better than your seconds left here, before orange heat lightning before blue dawn stalls us just this once, en route for Popsicles, shrill ice long interested in primitive electronics. Yeah, dog, I got this. An amber dragonfly that lands abroad pumpkin leaf.
An anacin balanced between health and blistered esteem: his struggle to overcome his own innate wickedness manifests in ornate sessions with angels. They shoot targets to them in the evening. In the evening, balance braces itself for the sloughing off of sunshine, while Buckshot peels her sensibilities with sinsemilla. We’re all angels here, son. Luis Aponte was fairly exhilarated today. I got this, dog. We could talk about everything that isn’t, and synthesize what is until we no longer walk for food for houses rot when we pass them, the Roadmaster, hills present as gradual walls with light from another room perched. Churlish, he wakes to bongs and coffee, and wonders how wise it would be to prepare a tea from these psychedelic seeds. As if crusted and gummed from the inside. Isis, oh Isis. An animal from meandering reddened while articulating. The headlines, as in where your process goes. Ogres scream when touched by bald noon. I think I thought I saw you try. Consider this. The month of August has no memory. Buckshot sails on a wheel horse mower over waves of yard. Just because noone can die your death for you doesn’t mean you can’t have a party! You’re a mystical child, tenor saxophone, rhodes school of piano, for just after the party you slip to your bed, tears upending on your cheeks, and it’s because you might have missed me, and because I will die one day, and you fear the loneliness of being unable to relate to anyone else ever again, the self and mine, and it’s because the mouth of the lake was wider once, was covering everything here, once, and half an ounce later we’re still here, home, you in your blue recliner and I in my office, panting and with wood, because to enter the holy forest of the sentence without judgement is at best disingenuous, at worst the comedown from hawaiian baby woodrose seeds, because some couples we know broke up online. Well, that was just about it! She’d had just enough gun proofs flung in her face to know the laws of mindful composing had been violated, something that happened outside this text had got in somehow, and no two ways about it, we fuck our opposites while trucks turn the night over briefly to scald sparks from the road. I desire, I cause. Someone has written that aimlessness across every wall in every stall in all the gas station bathrooms from Bemus Point to Gary, Indiana. Don’t you think that’s strange? With her grace intact, ever plural allure, ever altered via ache as squints, squirts bird calls spare change the gross details, of, deflation, their traits, impaled on all her papers, don’t you think that’s a bit odd, travel sized malt? Jewel weed grows the ditches over over, foam at the joints, trails.
Over over worth, worthiness, over over truth, truthfully, since. Since since since switch up, since since since misty, twisted, grips gripe pills doppler, grange squall, arrangement squaw, Carl, lube. Hubris, given dream quid, dripping drinks, crippled and stifled and safe for generally recognized, gifts. Gently use soy roads or emblem cube booth up on. Sooth airs. Looseleaf lose looseleaf fools, cap, fools cap lose leaf loose cap fools. Folded gold up, onto, folded gold up there on big horizon bolts. Colds dollop or crouch or dollop or southern reasonable belt and green irritation. Colloidal enunciation. Colloidal adult undergarment. Colloidal alloy boy, colluded sips on, prisoner, pism twill witch ginger grills, prison tits. Prison tits prison tits prison tits. The prism witch, gist, limbs akimbo milk. Over over truth, over, over over truth, odor, full grown schools don’t, full capped amps may. Always. A way in, a way away to, from. I’ll wait, but from, where to, in it. With in there’s no. On the way, in the way of, astride astringent, astride drink grins, assigned seats or assay pale wake. On the way in. On the way into, in it, in the way of on the way in, in it, in it, in. Prim witch, dim some witch with brine, bovine pride, bind witch chuckles, brood whips browse salt, glue width set inched forward, truly outrageous. Truly, truly outrageous. A gas gap with pin frills. A gape thrills grate named hill bricks. Married. Impaled traits. On impact, impressed, enterprise opera rations out over out glowed. Move out owl. Cow, come. Wow, brine twill, burdens caustic warrior brittle, bat away in weights eidetic, brawl where no warts or gorgeous torpid void, void void void. Avid void, a video oleander, avid potable amid embargo gauge, filmed through gauze, filtered wilted where no warts or engorged torpedo avoids me, a video elevator, a bird vertical and more or less hurt, a rule, a rule rain’s tension. A rude wake piston suspended, away from the weights and outrage, bowed cows crow towel dregs. Tunnel webs. Tone webs. Tunnel bets. Bested whip chick, wilt fridge grill on or around barbell cute, barbell queue up elusive avoidance. Eulogies coy boiling point at moan throat plural pulp route administrated commission positive that trinity leper folk away to wane wine coal treat leer, peeling grin piston video through gauze battle, married warrior, married arroyo in tropical gruel illness festivities. Too, a truth’s teeth thrill, though for us sunk nuisances dampening penmanship sails accrued unknowing, accumulations of fringe distances distances distances, flippant distaff patterning to object to, too. The second first, thirdly, the second first of the month, thermal, the second first second third of the month, the first second third, the second third, the first third the second third, of minutes, from minutes to minuets, the second or first fourth of the third, months, moths, mouths, molds,
the secular feral thirds, seconds on the fourth, but first, thirds, tiny piano, first, tiny music made second to, first it’s second, but who, who is second first this month? Who will second first? Tiny tiny tiny, tiny tiny tiny tiny, tiny tiny tiny, tiny tiny tiny tiny, tiny tiny tiny, tiny tiny tiny tiny ivy on away games, tiny on away, ivy on away games, tiny tins of ivy away on games, on games. This is the second we’re crossing first. Cough cough cough cough. I put this here and, look, here it is! Cough cough cough cough. What part what wet of sunrise, drawn. What part what wet pattern of risen, son. Pattern roses, pattern mums. What wet part of wet dawn patterns ropes here? Prison tilt, lips, gelding delicate. What wet part of what wet dawn do you wet part in, away from? There was almost a second fourth this month. Is that when you drink coffee? No, coffee is better in the morning. In the evening veins ebb and blindness gains traction after rolling two joints I smoke two joints. After rolling to joints I bend, blend nylon with other noun. After rolling too, joints bent, my veins ebb and I go blind. After rolling I come to a stop. After rolling I come to a stop sign. I’m not sure which is first. There were two fourths this month, after rolling. After rolling two joints I generally smoke two joints. After rolling I sign the glyph for stop. After rolling I rolling I roll, I roll over two joints for two consecutive seconds. For two consecutive seconds I roll two joints cough cough cough. The gelding is so delicate and so down to pet. Buckshot would call your gelding Buckshot would call your gelding, Buckshot would call your geldingoh, maybe Jesus. When Buckshot calls. In the evening I am so down to pet. I am so down. Saxophone lung, where does gas come from, motors turned down like ample comfort, or organs stirring rust up from the bottom of the lake? Drums merge memorization money tree limps, limps pent like pant legs right up to jaw, where does gas hit the head down on the floor with the pets,
pets another gelding gelatin ice fished up out of cold orphic rivulet, storage inebriation, smacked grail safe with sibling dystrophy biscuits and wavy retention rates, rats gently use soy to roll joints, two, or soaked hawaiian baby woodrose seeds overnight in lemon water, discard grit drink pucker, come as you are or were even. My cousin is hungry. The English the english the english the english, languid differentials all talking points at your mouth ruptured and running from skies gone soft with my father, your cousin will tell you. I got this, dog! Saxophone lung, where gas and strips of strips of strips of live wife, lying in wait to savor her belly pressed wet upon my cock, lips. There’s this tentative unfolding and the distant threat of teeth we eat meat we eat meat we eat meat. Don’t miss out on taking your music with you. Miss out. Miss out. Mess up, miss out. Miss up. Mess out. Mix up mess up, miss out mess up, mixed messages mint mess. Miss music out out miss out music out, miss up music out mix at, maxed credit, debit pict. This pictorial on ardent young trees will crease you. An amphitheater rolled up on piano keys to the mixed mess, the messages it smelled like, whew! Wheat thins. Weapons, wrestlers, road cruel, wrecked wax assassin, or you, or me, and a wilting a whiskey sour a rotgut tonic melodic trough, more ironic bricked laptops back up the mix on tape archive drives, on tap archive drive, on tape archive drive. On Tape Archive Drive, (run, spook, run) cicadas of August grip the rust in sounds. We’re thrust into sumptuous lures. A month could numb what tall until forests beat back clearings. I’m used to written, a weapon upon nude reams. These are the terms. Worship as an index of less cake more or what tall lures, what thrall alerts her to the tiny lap machine, all black pink, all potash and impossible grout. You pass grasps the grass passion lake. You lake trash, table maples made from gross coal pork. You’ve grown! He’s gone now, but before. That’s still there, some say. Some go so far as to travel to. My agent, expressive, my agent, impudent, my agent, in poor taste, tense, my agent able to but unadorned, my agent the braille, my agent the portrait, my agent something to do with scale and pressure. My agent the poverty of voluptuous bruises. My agent the affluent linguist. A linguist is fluent in air, mostly. On Tape Archive Drive we only travel county roads. An affiliation is struck from tribal cabals. Tight chords. Tight. Chords. Tight chords. Tight. Chords. Tide clouds, light chords, light chords, tight clouds, like chords, like clouds, lake chords, lake chords, lake chords, lake chords.
Tribal clouds like lake chords like tidal towns like lake clouds like light course, like lame doors. I like late coals. I like light crows. I pry open the windows of the school, the dust wiping the taste of cannabis from my lips, from my breath the touch of wilting, the throne sat upon by aching. The air rears its ugly head backwards as the alarms burst. The linoleum is structured shining with juice. I line the ice up on the window sill, hunch down as far as I can. Just outside the door a trickle of light joins with the endless flood of musk and darkness, augmenting dust chords. A chorus of cutters, emotionally distraught and coughing up blood, slash themselves in the wrists with long sleeves of rubber glass. I climb each. Jesus smiles. I cling to just this, though ordering disturbs my skin in hot grounded sleeves. The leaves just the other side. Just the other side leaves. Just the other side. Just the other side. She would kill a man for a grilled cheese sandwich. He grew gills, to oblate all the mold. Lobes. Poles. Totes. Nodes. Growth. Southern. Outer. Insect. Insulin. Salty. Condemned. Misinterprets. Immersive. Commerce. With just three of us. Commingling. Continuity. Continuity. Continuity. Continuity. Under tunes on the tones under nodes atop lobes. Continually. Under tools in the bones between totes below moons. Continuity. Continually. Continuity. The painter comes in the morning, and noone’s awake yet but me. I’m thinking about what five hours of sleep a night might do to mewould I be more productive? Do I not spill forth thwarted gasses, to curl the bus off the business of slingshot runs? The morning paints itself on the windows when I’m the only one awake. The morning’s pain, as in something I cup and sinister with, a sinuous old blow toss out the forest windows. The demons in the forest are only bordering evilthey lie along the submerged leaves, cracking the ground as the painter steps through this part. There are layers of troubled sky, on the verge of spitting rain. There’s the revelation of does as well. Buckshot sailing the lawn on a wheel horse mower, her hips touching me darkly. You sure do look nice, our clothes hung cloistered outside to dry on a string. Make
Freedom is free from origin or dispute. The pumpkin flowers open all morning long, but underneath is a nylon mesh that provides extra support and comfort. Our patented sunglut. Our patriarchal armory burned down while you were out. In town wasps gape. Howling at the moot points, a pencil dips into fat ink blessings while your spectacles smear over lonely gravel. Her navelI bury the color orange there. It glisters and sighs in her frecklepeppered belly. I sing in the meantime enough songs to fill our empty nights. One of the tickets sold in Minnesota for the Powerball Game Wednesday evening matched all six numbers drawn. If you enjoy gardening, it’s never too early to start thinking about next year’s growing season. Earlier this week, we were introduced to a new concept in intellectual property law: later, the sins of previous generations starved the stars out of the sky, and they punctured our eyes while we lay gapemouthed just beyond the grate. Tables, son, walltowall tabla fracture, those crisp up ended rendezvous only serve to severe an unlovable coating. And sometimes I think death won’t be so bad. The Powerball Game Wednesday night wiped out all lovers’ trite eyes strung along the solariumJesus sways, his eyes on wrong, his eyes inside out. Can this trip be real? Your eyes are on this string, and it vibrates to the frequency of your teeth gashing on my scalp. This is what you find: John Muir, syrup, syrup, pursed Europe, opium, opiate enacted, opinions, opinions, opinions, flagging routes, smooth music summary rat, smooth truth under reddened elevators, under reddened oil flocks, sour trees evenly reasonable, occult, cloud ham cloud ham cloud ham cloud ham, the mistaking the Grail for frenzy, the encroachment on the souls of these screwedup stars, wrong in their cluttered heresies, and become a Cisco, Cisco, Cisco. Look, it doesn’t really matter what you think about living, you aren’t living, you are lived, you are lived by living itself, lived by living itself, left by living livedin, only a little livedin by living by itself, listening to living itself, listening to and listing living itself, left listed by living, listed living, left by what you think about living. What you think about living will be all that’s left. All that’s left living is living itself, in lists, in being left, left to living, left to living yourself. Yourself yourself yourself. Yourself yourself yourself. Yourself yourself yourself.
Living livedin, living lived, living lived, living lived in and snug, warm and living, living itself living livedin, livedin loving living warm snug bus, loving bus, bus living smug warmth and bus left livedin by itself, livedin loving and there on the rug, there on the rug. Don’t. Another bird. Like. Joke. Carefully hang, limb. Primitive man, as I imagine him. As mage image. Fade. Powerball Game. Powerball Game, a magic, as gum. Powerball Game, jealous precious, pleasure empathic, factoring. A palpable imprecision. Appropriate amounts of frogs singing in trees. Powerball Game stabs at chance to crack open eating butter onion doubloon. The buffer proofs fauns so ordinary yearning greases such human nerves. The buffer proofs orange, joking grief fiefdoms stuck contested down North. Thorns in both houses, how thought trucks in the circuses. How thought thought, how thought thought, how thought thought, how thought thought, how thought how thought thought, how thought thought thought, how thought how though how thought thought thought, how thought, how thought, how thought, thought thought, thought how? He paused, trying to commit the whole thing to memory. It was still morning, and the Painter was hanging his shadow in the window, painting it in with perfunctory brushing. Someone thought it would be a good idea to debunk islands like a glad decoction from a solid brackish color. A sold brass, a plump shoe. A grit filter moist eagerness to soil. When will the bullet proof or food meet us girl hook?
Who abrupt and aloof girl food bullets pellmells on our pallbearers? Letters, sunshine, amble, loved sustenance, American lathe, seed animal lateral satchel, acknowledged limp, sands, acids. During the day insect tribes like fast water over rocks, unravelling a rusty sigh through the sun fringed leaves. After steeping seeds overnight the water turns black, objects readjust their lines, become supple gesture. He’s breathing with the painter, apportioned sums of oxygen and photo period tabulator. Buckshot sleeps in mornings while I rise to work and bruise my mind gently re usable, soil and suck the halo fluttering between breezedrenched limbs. Girl food bellows warm feet of cooking rice after midnight for her, first the red muddy underlines, then tower dryness, slow boiled erosion that accrues like a new distance. Do we need the word ‘new?’ The foreign glance turns over you. The blurred ice, the blunder glaze, the burden of safe greenswe dream in the forest, we love in the forest. The painter has left after some outer walls are matte. I eat girl food and wait to water gardens browning in season with a leap of faith. In the evening the willow wanders over its shadow in phases. I trip over reflected lesions released by oceanic amphetamines. I have no reason to believe in anything. I have not reason to not believe in anything. I have no reasonthe history of beer, and of gardens, succumbs to my tread. Threads of antique smoke flowering from some old boards I found thrown on the same fire I’ve thrown some old shoes and shorts, some torn aerobics of myself mined for flash heat and rustic light. By morning it’s all burned. Denim murder, denim merged with coal. In memory of raw rioters as aggregations mistaken for low fur. In meeting wrestlers one undoes some rhythm. We have little reason to wake up today. But we do we do. I have this feeling in gray sheets of morning rain light, come to a green ridge, come to a gold terminal pasture of Summer, when Buckshot’s still asleep but I feel her through the house, porous hostile boards. The poor hostile boards don’t stand a chance while Buckshot’s still asleep. Then there’s the ritual of ecstasydiurnal, full of pocked estuaries, drawing one quiltedge just catty corner the other for patterned brocade. Over. Calea lines the bongbowl as admixture to awakening cannabis. Also, I drink some Hawaiian Baby Woodrose tea on the front porch, swollen traffic slipping over the ridge. All of us are hampered by gravity here. While Buckshot sleeps, the coffeemaker ticks, and I think that in the morning one wants a gently bitter brew. I feel her through the house, and the house announces itself squat in the cornerthis cupping of trees isn’t for nothing, it’s a mother’s arms, the deep abiding comfort. The grave vertical horizon. Once we met my brother, all but unborn, flat against cotton in the woodpanel walls of the early 1970s. We met her sisters, analyzing every social engagement. Every societal vegelista bars some rubbing alcohol and some mint. It’s a mother’s arms, sprawl and contraction of soaked empty trees, it’s a neck lined with feeling good, feeling needle trips, feeding you while you
confirm the last five transactions. Has money exchanged hands among these slippery guitars? Hairraising in every room. Hair raising on the little mother’s arms. My thumbs hooked into your mouth thought it was over for a minute, but the rain returns and runs us down, out of luck with a suffrage of crows sucking all around us the air from the room, from the fields, the fetid destiny breath. The fields. I remember that they were starving. The deep abiding comfort. The last glimpse of creation through eyes that have slowly slid to dimness. Since the war his teeth have cracked the sky in flashes and sapphic gaps. I mispronounce everything, even desire, as we have ended up here talking naked and crippled with each other’s moods, instead of fucking. The cooler breath of the middle of August believes too in the velvet of caustic tongues. We pause in the middle of music, stuck in constructive cribs. Consequence depends. No time to play with my emotions. A credit to me. I mispronounce everything instead of fucking. She doesn’t like the state she’s in. Then followed a period of furious activity, in which dishes were scrubbed in circles and new pillow cases found. It is he who paints by numbers. It is he who paints where pain trails off in the middle of explaining sunshine. The pale temple that Jesus enacted can see you when you’re packing that bong. The sin of inebriation bends over her white body, parted by threshold angles and drafts from positive machines. Pot mixed with kanna in a waterpipe and mouthfuls of lysergic acid amide. The passive example your father’s absence sets models itself after shadow crooks of jambs and gentlemen who repurpose the ropes that hold you here. Oregon salmon patties are one such blessing you can eat. Did we wake up today? Slow file transfers, an occurrence, you can concur but I’m consecrated, but I’m confiscated, erect but contaminated, sex was elongated and glossy which concerned you greatly. But I said, just a short walk out among the grounds, with seeds in you, just a short walk out among gourds and will it make you sore, will it make you sore if I touch you. The sensation of falling through you. You have the sensation of falling through you. Because I know you know about it, but my hands, they dapple like dreaming in full daylight’s a sin, maybe not a sin but something unknowable, unkempt, there were always all these dishes I had to do and in doing them I was somewhat encumbered, growing cucumber, growing pumpkin, growing sunflower. Unless. Unless what? Unless. I could teach you. Every day light drags itself across the yard. As it is, I stand slackjawed in the back. The plants sing through my brain a kind of vibration ambivalence. The plants sting through
my brain but I don’t think the birds hear them. I won’t let anyone near it. This morning I saw something black move into the woods. This morning there is less scrambling, more purity in light and less tactile interest, less coffee, more powder, less paint minting the walls of our house. Lemon marriage gestures secede from us as I rise from an empty bed. You who have been awake all night on the Internet, you who <softly open up to my french. Sentences epidural peninsula latent frames. One almost certainly dies. Whether I have drugs or not is relatively unimportant, my familiar is known to. Was charged with Thursday in municipal court. Would you go back to school if you’d feigned a call to escape certain social situations, leaves it blunt and hovering, booming and soon assembled to her ache of specifications, blueprint languor. Yves Kein, JayZ. Ever revolving, volts of cloth rot on the dockets. Not me! I hold down smoke, pour over photographs of maps that make legendary old ridges in the woods. You gotta take a lot of shit for other people to work a core that rocks will choke while the sun hides. Let’s review. There’s this sky so bruised, so burnished, and its age has never rested. I can still get high. I was playing guitar like a motherfucking riot. A bluish language shames and maples all above us trapped in dew. The wedding framed an amorous frenzy, each guest segued in gushing through mist, sifting over fat berries rimmed with juice. On Sunday morning. I use a lot of admixtures. When I hear the twinkle of the dog’s collar Buckshot must rise, who falls asleep with me in weehour thunder, holding me to her. So much beer split my head to ash in the morning. She offered her cousin money to hook us up, and it worked. So much beer spilt on the past, though, and so I lose the thread of poems, forgetful of music and ignorant of speech. I use a lot of advertising. On Sunday morning. Hawaiian Baby Tea all brewed in the dark in our desolate cabinets. Buckshot must rise, having fallen into separate breaths, having wrenched in choosing to worry over me, who ploughed the softened causeway all closed for business but burning with faults. When I tire of poem I go out to walk the garden. I eat prime rib prim in misted Sunday, dribbling light on thick whorled glass. For once there’s photographic evidence that she’s up at dawn, walking the garden, watching the warp of cocoon webs trap branches on distant trees. In our desolate cabin, plants powder to green starry snuff. Buckshot takes to the chest the thread of the warp of some poems, ongoing vocals that covet temporal mouths. Threshing, threshing, shower seed surf. Threshing, threshing, shower seed surf food. Every season the sun drags itself over our home, leaving behind a thickening green trail.
Threshing, threshing shower threshing, threshing, threshing shower surf seed, threshing. Schedule festering , schedule festering brim. Hymnals do. They share breathing and they share space and they share resonance and they share reversals. At August’s end the air cools and sweeps slowly over the ridge. Rippedup light grins. The forms have been fixed, and glisten in the popups. I practice description behind your windows. Buckshot sailing beside the pagan willow. I pray to the blood whizzing through your head. The blood whizzing through your head crackles and stretches out over a horizon your eyes enclose. I figure everyone will be in a better mood with groceries and a clean house. Old Alabama Johnny fluttered in his throat with each fall of the hammer, murmuring the rumors you’ve all heard about hurt as a mum stunt, as a fringe dripping intelligence, an agent gaping with wound hues and soft as God’s sleeping breath. And all along the flag pole the show ponies slow centrifuge to a Disney montage. Moaning, resin eats seriousness out of glottal tragediesa full stop we came to, blank, suffices to fit her where her legs dangle grape imperatives, responsive to declining sun. Sparks. Thrashing. A shower hurts seeds hurts demons where our rabies seasoning dashed on Beaver Creek next to the Lucky 10. Hymnals almost always do. Buckshot takes to the chest where we spotted what looked like wheat, bull agar, flight tunes, interesting lemons, scarlet ectoplams that scar head dental gap, death metal earthquake death metal police, death police a poltice too, a politico, nervous outside. All kidding aside, I Died Today. Now we’re getting tinnitus from all the silence, and aluminum prices are falling, falling, falling. The legend of bigfoot. The wish for an unknowing. We would like to occupy ourselves in less space than we should, or how the deer emerge from the bush, how we’re serpentine and vacuous, almost a gas, certainly less citrus than a mist with interest. I’m waking less and less polluted. Waking more to a lawn of crows after weak hurricane downpour, walking grass for easy hunting. Ongoing vocals that bookend your tongue. Some of us build ontology from radio Darwinism while garbage grates on her last nerve. Little speaks. She mentions that these storms are good for the well. You are not possible, or I am impossible, or we’re barely possible while morning wraps us in its most gentle shine. Morningshine, morningshine, wash me of forces ornery and cold. Did you know that clean water will get out of hand if by hand you mean glass, and if by get out you mean escape? The older I get, the more I feel I’m slowly becoming a picture of a chick holding a baby. You’d be surprised. The rustic peasants summarize economy by using tools made of the hold the rich have on them. Spiders drip down the sills. She shows me their legs, the width of a hair. Later I drink a black tea that manifests my mind, just under my skin. In the meantime, my cell phone chortles a text that re arranges next weekcute blue purchases, stupid dueling lullabies. Also, the stolen art trails off, gay yesterdays draining intelligence from tin entire retreats. I am liking with my blue thumb these near storm subliminals. Each of us has samenesses among diverse troughs of greenery. My sister was urgent and causal like sour cloves, even though the season governs with crows and the spook hands of spiders. You walk out onto the frail verdant crystal, and the seasons elevate us, pouring everything we have into those surprise drops to gorge. This was updated fourteen hours ago. My sister was ergot, and Rome called him from discussions. You walk into the way night
swallows, hollow but still ringing with phonetic gods. That trail, dumb with sleeping songs, grinds a culture to love and moths while you walk out into the same trains, the very same vapor that emotes with her mouth and the drop between breasts, I’m sorry if I dropped something there, sopping with wickedness and healthy to outward eye. My spook hands catch insects coming into the house at all hours, even when time’s flat ductwork no longer ventilates our liaison. And by that I mean, show me your legs! Show me those guilty ecstasies you fashioned yourself on Saturday nights at sixteen, believing everything that mattered was far off and very busy. I even grew still with how quiet it was. There were uselessnesses quoting orange gentlemanly weights. It gets on my last nerve, or is the penultimate in adjacent mythology. Why is there so much that feels infinite in this transitory phase? Why do we pressure on the outside when the transmission of fanged storms blots Riker’s Island? I have beer, woodrose, kanna, cannabis. The blur I see is roughly equivalent to the valueadded dead. I make love to you before a week at my sister’s, and come too quickly, so enthralled with your skin. It gives to the touch. Hurricane Irene, you say, won’t you pall at ferocious cricket chatter, won’t you pat down a syndrome I molt through the forest, my useless and unforgiving shell? I’m not even sure that will come out. Right. Still, we lay parallel to each other, sharing the jabs and jagged thwart. In the next room you’re getting text messages from your mother and they whistle like a silk jackal. Lucky for me, I’d forgotten what words mean. Good night, Irene, good night, Irene, I’ll see you, in, my dreams. It’s about roving focus over a signslick road. An empty driveway before a transgression of states. I love the willow as well. And the willow in turn turns to narrow, the missed disaster we prepared for, in the end just a lowslung sky sucking tears from our heads, the bath of cherry trees far from home. Here Randy Adams wonders about the first human laughter. I need something slick to snort this on. Remember not to close the door when you sleep. Remember your father, those faint etched echoes, the scald that is destiny that is children propulsion, shooting from Buckshot’s hips in a milky arc to the mouth of our lord, Oh, my lord. Oh, my lord. Mostly I miss the sensation of the shaped smell of you, knowing your body was solid and also here, even if only dreaming in the next room. Me? I never dream! It’s about roving frozen over a sundrunk road. Right. Oh, but the cool concrete under your bare toes, the starry slide into Autumn that begins with a longer song reverberating from a constant night. It’s compelling, is all. Contraction. Shock. Truck. Goals. Dude, if you knew me, you’d know I have no interest in a flat screen TV. This is what Buckshot does when I’m away. Babyblanket curtain, sewing holes in my jeans, sowing wholes. Michael Kapalin was supposed to drop by, but baby curtains cranked it to ten, maybe more, and we hotbox the house in my mother’s room, we, hopscotch butter arrays until Buckshot’s just about blue. Michael Kapalin, the imagemaker. Massive. Corollary. Coral. Leslie Scheuvront’s decided it’s time for bed. Remember not to close the door. Don’t remember to close the door. Remember to close not the door. Not remember, don’t remember, not remember, don’t. Don’t remember. Don’t remember. Even if it’s not the same house, it’s these people, and the traces of those panting Saturday nights, up against one’s singularity, you can imagine engines that push past this but also don’t forget to leave that door open. Coal clouds could catch in her throat.
Thorax. Xanadu. Thorax. Echoed, scrolls dunked in, dumber than, funny! I like it. Burl Ives, I like it. Meet me at the stone arch across from Leslie’s house. The sun is growing meat and other shuddering poultices across the street from Leslie’s house. The other houses line up to laugh empty reflections in smooth dark windows at me across the street from Leslie’s house. I’m not split by sunshine and watering the concrete with huge schools of my bleeding emotion. I’m not given to vicious rendezvous along his ample corporate jetty. I know I’ll grow meat from horrible lullabiesI know I’ll be there. He’s been in choke a bitch mode for a few days. With no attention, sagging. The other one was British Petroleum. You have to give me that gun. There’s the smoke and crescendo of title cards, the sifting down of green kanna powder. I wait endover end days for you, the taste of you as a sour woman a memory to punctuate hours, like smoking, while the bright swathe wake of the hurricane encases me in heat. Why wait? Why think as private the vat you pull from me, greedy perversions and screams that sluice my nuts. We go even further here. We go there. I’m at Leslie’s house, the meat walls, grown folds. Volts. Solvents. My sagging attention could be distilled into a gas, she gasps, and out from my belly, boom, womb parties. But with Lindsay Morrison and I, we’re alive in one another’s invisible world. Weird. With dwindling weeds. A fly caught in my coffee, my coffee, dear Lindsayan awful lack of you dials up on electric blanket my mother’s vicodin comfort. The drip. Threshing, threshing. The drip. Thrashing, great meat volume, your plant by the barn shot up another 612 inches. Choice. Dottle. Chores. Swaddled, Buckshot, as when the cursor jumps as when a focus scalds. Can I just smoke marijuana in peace? I’m almost aware of politics. I come up on you in the dark, just so, when I crush six seeds from Hawaiian Baby Woodrose, the sickness unto enlightens, enlivens, engorged with depression water. We’ll take Thomas Mann to extremes. It’s just faster in the shell. A thread. Ether, dreams, stay seated, stay. Whales evolve like the volume on your dogs like lords grown coarse with soaring. Grown giant with caring, groaning more romance on horizon, on nostrils, hoarse with meaning. More words is never good. Shower, seed, surf. I give Mom forty bucks for the doctor, I swallow amphetamines, and here too I observe something awkward when Kelly picks her up. Stay seated, the day’s pushing you to red beds. I come on you in the dark, pushing childless through tides that tense across our throats like every ghost we’ve exorcised here, the lonely Saturday night, now on Thursdays and better than ever. Improved. I’ll improve you, Lindsay Morrison, in the way you’ve also upended me, spilling my sails out butter on a wind I’d forget but for you, I’d forget but for you the meaning in standing taller than the dogs, in pushing children. I’ll teach you how to ignore the warnings. I dare say you expect value from your investment. I have dreams in which I forget my dreams. But there’s a real shortage of marijuana here, the acreage of genders grown into handmedowns, oh, Lindsay Morrison, hand me yourself and learn to flutter, learn to ignore falling down. Tough clouds, tough gall bales, tough murder dayshine. And then the central air kicks in. I feel to enter you. These are more worse words, certain. I will read this years ago, stumbled into big quiet. I will read this to you when I’m gone, and it will be my only life. The day’s red, plush, some waves of insects, some wind over stretched limbs. But stay away from fatty starches! What good
your faith does you, sprawled fullon standing, vernacular a breathing poultice, a poetry on concrete poured up in my mouth, hatching months. Buckshot spills my thoughts. Oberlin cable coop. Let me take this opportunity to smile. I’m speedpacing in Leslie’s garage. Occasionally, I run into the flystrip. Buckshot, you see, Buckshot’s perfect, she’s a stretch. I was years sifting mutations of all the girls. I learned happiness. Buckshot Phillips. Buckshot LaCook. I want you to feel like you can start anywhere, and work your way through quarks and odd seams to burst butterflies white and strung along the outside world. The outside world works against me to burn my dick, upended, spiritually fractured, my chin slick with what I want to be your gravy. To lean you back, to have at it. He’s merciless with everyone’s writing but his own, but he also knows how to worship. It’s the most important thing that happens around here. I sold my blood to Jesus. I stepped through innumerable feeds. Portable...ashes. The beginning of September. Sexually. Thunder ponders the windows. A strained soup of morning light spills over our home of green ridge. Buckshot wakes me in her night’s mania, as in contemporary high school’s narcissism, carving manipulated images into protocol that creaks. Oh Jesus, she says, they’re suburban and they’re middle class and they’re empty, and has it always been so? They have, I want to say, but am too groggy from rest. But it isn’t and never was, too. And yet, that morning, after having been in Ohio for a week and just getting home the night before, he stood at the top of his ridge and engaged with a view of the willow, slung worshipfully across the crest, manifested melting at where lemon powers as in singed, he was singing to himself inside himself. He was singing himself from the inside out, and this is why there was coughing, and why Jesus walked near him, gibbering. And why those islands defaulting through Mormon earthquakes ache the way Buckshot should, after mowing the frontage indifferent and filtering grave vacant signals. Makes sense to me, boss. A little bruise fish, a sash on weight trails. I collect seeds. With an hour to go before work I pack the bong carefully, planning to sensitize myself for some time, to halo head. This is where we live. The water filters Western art music history from scratch hot tongue math, and from algorithms rogue and gossiping. You’re frightened, ivy veering off from your tongue gushing wounds, frightened at the folds you’ve found in the day that dip into your time, all your time is red. Jesus and Buckshot walk into a bar. Ouch, says Buckshot, ounce. Weave owls into the quilts, call it quits, spit praline. I’ll pray for a limit to the sun’s buttons. They’re suburban and they’re middle class, she mentions. You won’t know if it’s been successful until the gym, the gym, the gym. The gym is on fire! Now hug me. The rise of hot tongue bats, torque saddened torque growth force it, torque stoned force it as a as a shroud. That’s down. As a as a crowdpleaser, sure to pleasure. Scared of leather. Did you ever know that you’re my hero? That we grew a tall circle of sunflowers around your flag? Don’t you think language itself is narcissistic? I swim my way through thick frost of insects lapping. These weeds, you see, here, these weeds bleed from the forest, almost to your feet. During the Great Treestand Restoration of 2011. That’s when trucks screw down the ridge, indifferent to fluid dynamism, mesmerised made murder gulps. Hey. Even a bus a city bus, even a bus a city bus, even a bus a city bus, even a bus a city bus. Veal. That weed, see? You who spilled this sweet light like a honey combing the
contour of the interior. The contour of the interior is rented out to foreigners. We chop and slice the air with weights, rubbering our muscles and sliding further down from our brains. I’m glad to be with you here. The free weights, I’m glad to be with you here in the land of rumors of black bears. Mostly because the body needs taken out, needs to run, needs to remember the taut ancestry of a louder life, huddled in front of some sanctuary bonfire in the hills while everything unseen turns slowly just where the light can’t reach. JESUS: Ron Silliman’s secret vice is his gumby collection. Grown men allow awkward cars to flourish during enlightenment brie. Grief pretends to water her reflection. They wear each other, walk wholly enmeshed in each other’s flesh. I was talking about something. I was speaking, sad sand and womb blurs. And a sour woman says, pinch this voice here, like the edge of a pie. BUCKSHOT: Default fruit. A faucet. Deafened, dead. By fruit. JESUS: Rice. BUCKSHOT: Gray drip world. In the gymnasium. It’s hard to feel anger there. In the gymnasium. Gray drill world, dealt. Put the monkey before the vent. JESUS: This is Ron Silliman’s secret voice. This is your secret voice. This is Ron Silliman’s secret voice. BUCKSHOT: This is your voice. My vice. JESUS: A gratuity. BUCKSHOT: Subject coughs, blows nose in or on morning. JESUS: Use your secret voice! BUCKSHOT: What does a human voice conceal? A secret vice! A village of sections! A segment of vindication a saturated vessel! On Saturn several days are yards long, though rough groans germinate rabid with dew. JESUS: My pet rabbit my childhood was a hole. Those days are miles until you sleep now, though you’re singing the same song I do, trying to outrun a bear. BUCKSHOT: You can’t run downhill, that’s ignorant.
JESUS: Another selective sieve! BUCKSHOT: Another’s sentiment works his time out on rubber palms. JESUS: The rubber pain BUCKSHOT: ...the motherfucking timecard... JESUS: This is where we came from. Hours smear over our skinned knees, rudely reddening our skinned knees, stung with a swab and echoing with television screams. Really, Dracula was calculated in the green shag and wood wall panels. Our skinned knees confuse enthusiasm for basic husbandry. BUCKSHOT: Mine in the morningI like to linger over streets in sleep. For a whole week a world’s cloud whispers bebop in slow matriarch. Carved farts! Curled frets, every morning at the mine, Mercurochrome a loneliness in memory specificity. JESUS: Ruled for your pleasure, though. And when I remember your memories BUCKSHOT: My breasts. JESUS: Specifically Mercury Retrograde. You have to scrape the fuzz off the seeds first. This is to avoid nausea. Second, sometime late afternoon, when the lawn chortles with light. You fall asleep sometime before thisyou were up real late. Where, during bongin’ times, does the flame go first? Several seconds in, everyone’s idle or away, and we have a gym membership we can use, if that’s any indication. BUCKSHOT: My breasts, my silver breasts, my silver apples, my moon. My breath, my sugar breath, my breathing in what threaded wonder, where themes wound. My break, my humbling break. JESUS: I’m not the guy who hangs around, who hangs around, this town this town. BUCKSHOT: You were dreaming when you wrote this. So... JESUS: But who can sleep? Who can sleep now? BUCKSHOT: My breasts, my silver beasts, my stippled moonflowers, my cinder breadth, my tender roll. My shivering breasts!
JESUS: Are you cold? When does feeling meet you? BUCKSHOT: When the tops of trees as September billows outward. Mellow to slow conflagration. An agitated elongation. What were you talking about, Li Po? Was this what you woke for? Compacted bong debris, cola warts, coal power flooding. With black chasm the lips of all. Who breathe. JESUS: Clouds open, though. And up. But I was talking about the willow. I was saying that mornings crawl like the start of days. When I meet your feelings, you’ve hung yellow plastic rope on an unused electric pole. On one side, distance. But over here, someone’s laughter is a variation of coughing. It’s off somewhat? BUCKSHOT: Of? JESUS: Volts. BUCKSHOT: I ovulate volute and in tune with. I fold qualms about acutely quelling. I told you. I told you. Night has argued the hidden with me. Actually, night doesn’t arguedaylight slides down a green shoulder. The cleft in the willow augers to gouge rouge from salted lifts. I get lost, even gel, in the rinse down to essentials, in the forest. Smoking. Cossacks react with me. It’s your resistance, simple and endured. I almost step on a very small toad. At the firepit forewarned blast patted fables we tripped balls with. My hammock twirls, without which we haven’t salty lids. Or even biscuits, through which we saw. Events conspire to manifest here, I think to himself, her fear early body bought, her early fear body fallen, here with my fault. And now, here with everything she’s got. A glare. Real limbs reimagined in frost. JESUS: And that was three hours ago, the book of style clenched wetly underfoot. The start of autumnal leaves beaded in the grass like stained glass. BUCKSHOT: Like a cleft ravine. JESUS: Like what’s left over. Rabid. Beating the yellow walls in frustration. BUCKSHOT: Now, I’m the type of girl to swallow bong hits and dusk, spitting. All day long, I do what’s natural. Are there qualitative differences between these words and the rest? I bring this up because it worries me, too. JESUS: Whether I’m the right guy for the job, so to speak.
BUCKSHOT: This makes all your failures your failures. JESUS: I wouldn’t even venture out through such gestalt of lawn, where the willow’s pencil sketched. If I recognize those differences. I’m a sin of surfaces. BUCKSHOT: And Saturday’s endlessness rinses to Sunday’s grey and finite hours. JESUS: Yeah. BUCKSHOT: All the while thunder drumming up its warning. JESUS: The whole time, the whale aligns with threaded pentameter. Honey tamed the ends of your gnarled coffee. You become a sarcasm, a carpal tonnage with a tongue ghosted over wires. There are no other viewers. There are no other other viewers. Yeah, it worries me. too. BUCKSHOT: Why not just relax? Just relapse, go lax. Why not just collapse? JESUS: He’s been to sleep in a bad place. He drifts on her water. The sun gumming up lawn corners rocked the foundational lakes where he succumbed to fresh water. He might have been drinking water pushed through grounds. It wasn’t fresh. Schedule gestalt. Ha! That he needed to be two, where objects printed their inverse across the grass. Sand animals, asterisks. He asks for the same mental lathe. The fundamental poetic form, he asks for the same annual ritual. When blue flowers radiate from sick vines, his hands crowd our stars, and then the turn of reapers. Their tune. He walks with her along cloudfogged routes. The frogs broke the air with fiscal calcification. Breathe, he tells her. Themes of the night included glue flutes, girl firs that popcorn on blistered ridges stepping down into the lake, and the corn cracking sugar open and licking grown insides. And the corn pulled over from grasses, eventually. That’s something he also asks for, in a menthol. Solid and droll, he pours himself into his own cells, aglow with gradual loss. BUCKSHOT: What a way to go! She has this morning to herself, growing silence from a sleeping house. A lack of water in the bong quiets her frantic efforts to float among days. To float among days, the afterlife construed from pumpkin guts. She pulls strings from orange globes. Gourds. After she’s consumed. Though she asks for a different lathe, shaving frail those wanton tits. She dreams she’s a libertine and she’s tuning crowds of stars. Around here, he tells her to breathe. He’s added it to her schedule. She turns to thrust her back against his sides, the hiss and glare of low jazz from desktop speakers. On the window sill she’s annoyed to see the pliers. You know, she can fly. Wisdom sewers dot the countryside.
JESUS: And the air begins to suggest grapes. BUCKSHOT: Wisdom sewers stalk her through unexpected phases. The phrasing is off. JESUS: Somewhat. BUCKSHOT: She feels as if her head were full of holes. JESUS: His feelings make holes in a bath of cannabis flowering. He feels as if her head rose, shadows there congruent with his usual morning cruelties. Succulents inundate. BUCKSHOT: Undeniably. She feels tenuous at best of times, at the least, files uploading to heaven again. JESUS: Stevia coats his tongue. BUCKSHOT: Though she knows the pitch of every fevered yellow bud. JESUS: The bush flavor, the lava output, and some of the more empty sounds he finds singing in the middle of the yard. BUCKSHOT: Busting out all over. JESUS: He’ll not usurp as glutton or tool venom through a bland craw. BUCKSHOT: One day she almost trips over an empty sound singing in the yard. She did not hear it. JESUS: He hears air on her skin, slipping the silhouette of his hands over her ankles. BUCKSHOT: Same here. Only, this time, blowing up sunshine under swaying trails of the willow, holy willow. Her brand is raw. JESUS: Flat, entranced. BUCKSHOT: Oh, the seeds, once ingested, trap a blue rain barrel in a mason jar filled with water, where she germinates on the window sill. JESUS: He turns and the states fail them.
BUCKSHOT: I know you like turkey. She makes a mean cabbage soup. JESUS: Clue union cold, cute, cut onion fold cream, cream ham cream bacon cream ham and feeling. Huge light just subtle, huge light just lawn light long awake, lawn light long long light worn night down to his feet, his feet are stubborn. A blue rain barrel in a mason jar filled with water and seeds, water and seeds. A blue rain in a macerated tar. Brain in jar, a blue failure, bulb hum bulb hum bulb hum. Water and seeds. BUCKSHOT: Burn him! JESUS: All the clues all the clues, all the clues all the clues, all the clues, all the clues. All the clues in the code were cold. Sullied. BUCKSHOT: Let’s assume we walk on something, living together. There are villains under every virginity. Let’s assume they walk in our living together and let’s assume they thread. Loads of embroidery entered her. Let’s assume the hoist that holds us to the side of this moo untain will hold. All the clues in the code were sold. JESUS: Solid clues. BUCKSHOT: I have had two low points in my life. There may have been smaller depressions before this. JESUS: A blue train, a masculine car. BUCKSHOT: White sports on man. The maps have absolute souls, obsolete folds. This house has been used to cook olive oil. Spiders curl in the corners, over us, tiny hidden sleep dream death. They are as tattered as flowers brown and at peace with history. He was blown in on a crooked sheath. I found a sound singing to me in the middle of the lawn. I found out how to aggressive and dressed to either the right or left, whichever eventuality or hue usual in sullen municipalities could know numbers cold. Gnaw, man, her mane fell old men. To leave me curt and cold ashes. JESUS: She waits over us in corners hardened to dust by nights. The walls of his hair could kill ships. BUCKSHOT: Shit.
JESUS: No shit. BUCKSHOT: Let’s presume to walk on nothing. The walls fill with flowers and shriek like paper. Corridors escort her, a quartz arc in cutting remarks, though he’s coarsened by thought. As I ought, As I aught. JESUS: You smell like laughing. I’ve got sores among the bottom of the mouths I nightmare about. BUCKSHOT: Those roses, those roses, those roses for, those roses, those roses are for, four roses, four roses are for, roses, those roses, those roses. JESUS: Harrowing dusks in September. BUCKSHOT: Morning streams over her, babbling over risks. The laughter from a brown cigarette lighter wounds rafters with smoke tattoo. On the drums, mud suspends judgement on a level of wakefulness aiding health and waves. Those roses are morning glories, I think, pearly gates from heavenly blue schools of sound. I find you singing in the yard, singular among the grasses. I find more sprouts outed in the water. There are fractures almost gentle in him that fester under rude blots. The cards say the browser says old mothers thought of dough spilling over workbled jeans. Girls like us zoom through hugs from generations rented by the hour that doesn’t start. Surely I’m sleeping? Seeds when you wake, and an aromatic smoke, some listless exhalation of warmth still forming on wind. I’ve evolved to despise the repetitions in your life, she said to him just last night, but in fewer words, and silent. You smoke pinches. You twist the flesh on my arms until it grins with purple memory. I wake you early because I’m restless. Go someplace else! Sleep folded up on the worst couch. Let us be repurposed. I find more sprouts of clouded embrace. Along the silk road. I find your sound alone wound up on seeds and bruised dew. Tangled in forest or walking slowly on roads of dead leaves. The silence is hallucinogenic the farther you go in. JESUS: Embrace clouds, he said, and learn to disperse. BUCKSHOT: She soon learns his diversions, and verbs hurl motion at legs at rest. JESUS: Don’t walk in the woods when the gods are around. As in always. BUCKSHOT: Growth thaws sugars when light preens her body soft. Fuck this shit, she said, I’m going to go make french fries. They wrap the bones in fat for the gods, they wrap the bones for the gods in fat, over fires.
JESUS: We get the tasty parts, and needn’t worry about health. BUCKSHOT: Nasty flowers, sane but frail, limp on chunks of wind, hint churches, bring meaning with naptha and naptha and forest, bring steel with rock, blends cusps of plant sugars to gushing rumor onyx. Your verbs. YOU’RE VERBS. Bring me down gently in the illness of visions, she says to him, though the way he’s standing indicates distance via scale. JESUS: Vitamin braille. BUCKSHOT: The vital touch, down in church, curled up worth. JESUS: It gets worse. BUCKSHOT: In hues sentinel in essence, in huge ecstatic clumps. JESUS: Those colors locate eyes in counts of blinks. Those colors rebel with tones against the green lace of shrubs swaying in waves over a fantasy ridge. In the morning I walk across dew drenched grasses to watch our cannabis grow. There’s a holy curvature to rapture there. For now, I’m out, but need only seeds to wake me, such as the one you found on the floor. We’re huge here, we fill whole rooms flowing out, and we suggest gardens, we suggest composting as a way to engineer. A slow trickle to October pulls down the ivory towers. We get the tasty parts, and needn’t worry about mortality. We don’t need to worry about your morals. More or less. September rains indian goldenrod, indian ended flames. Where once conflagration a drowning smooth to night’s pitch. She sails across the lawn, lengthening shadows to drag behind the tractor. BUCKSHOT: Almost time to get groceries and go to the gym. JESUS: There’s no rice for Mama! Vermicelli ages under butter in a pan. Without regret I swirl and smoke in brink liquid. Thicknesses of hot sauce awe us. BUCKSHOT: Wasn’t glued right. JESUS: After breathing in the flu. BUCKSHOT: Polyphony grows hoarse arresting her.
JESUS: The guitar scars you as you race over serum respiration, testing nations with torn vote glitter on chronic floorboards. BUCKSHOT: Solid as organization, as ergot ego plums. JESUS: Gross! Our sour hours flout conventionfloor flowers. BUCKSHOT: She follows him through heated motion, blowing an arc of panting glass across climates. JESUS: My arch enemy is a painting of my other, tethered to wet sex. BUCKSHOT: Then he fabricates myth. JESUS: Baffles her selfless reflection. BUCKSHOT: Left to feel clouds roll in over dangerous ridge, she rips horizons with zen deft cracks. JESUS: And he lifts this, filling her with the sounds found in moans. BUCKSHOT: Noone knows how poems are born! JESUS: Aborted plums, felt occult lures, the rulers pent with envy pelt bluejeans with hues mixed in his mouth. This is a huge month, hoses drowning. BUCKSHOT: Hold me, she says. You’re far too far far away. JESUS: This is about me coming back to earth. BUCKSHOT: This is about me, a nude abundance. JESUS: Annually, grain as a throat whorls our roles into eloping and the politics of kissed skin as the eclipse of sentient bodies loves our chests to catastrophe. BUCKSHOT: To weep openly with opinions, just grazing on listening to reason.
JESUS: There goes the suck of the door as she goes out to smoke. There goes the shut of the door and the brunt it’s curve mounts to these walls. Where? Over and over there and over the volume goes up, upon ridge ears and sudden fielded fires, where they burn grapes. BUCKSHOT: Apple cider vinegar for gout. Those were once days of lowdose aspirin. He would reel around the room, coughing, the repetition of phrases lazing in pierced light. We were born to gods that made of fields a sweet fire. She grazed her reason on him when he went out for a smoke, the soiled ascent to twilight, crying out as he drove her body over his dreams of her. I don’t know what he sings about. They’re killing animals and offering them up virginal to elders. The old men in the temple help us die when the fields brown to sour. When there is dignity in dying. When they’ve dug the guts of harvest out from under continuance. Nuanced anomaly, when will the holy willow hold us to our hours’ debt? Don’t follow my song, the tall smoke rushing from the verdant horizontal. Often in the big toe. Her collage collapsed in a foliage of names. The doors suck her honey breathing eager grins, eaten films from occupied politics, pucker up and suffer the children with me. Stutter. She’s sutured his blown head together from lips pursed in agony. Now the verdant horizontal blends the flesh of trees. He’s bending her around the bedframe, surrendered to the flesh of trees. She’s out at the vigil with her sisters, bliss trickling down her leg from in her, in her trips on seeds on heels and spinning simple mists, pinned to the bedframe soft with fallen soldiers. JESUS: Ah, but the devil is ours, to pay for the senses in skin. BUCKSHOT: Her skin, a delicious daubing with honey, a lips. I explode inside love. Cartoons mark us with breath. JESUS: There are some outlines south of him that blend with creek beds and master pure desert. When he breathes on stones they ring notes to you. They rig votes to scrawl all manner of dabbling in money trips. She was trapped in partial tars, partial to skin’s sense of placement along the flesh of indecipherable trees. There is no air there. BUCKSHOT: Her hair tied to skin, the rumble of first break of sun after a peak of clouds. Dew enthused by breath and daubed with delicate remembering. He explodes inside the love cartoons. JESUS: There are broken golden weeds, scolded by storms, working dew into the fabric of your shoes. We happen in analog lengths, warm like margins on gin, like the moot of his destiny. Moods assume mustard tones. Those summaries of elders leaning on dirt redact any useful salts between her breasts, peppered with beats.
BUCKSHOT: In her skin cacophony, cocoa loads trickling North down old overgrown routes, a taproot strings blister lights across the holy willows and its flustered snakes. Her own name stings in her mouth, like rolling over vowels wove just inches from her heart. JESUS: There’s rain now, through which he and she walk slanted. It dapples his eyes, and soon he’s forced to take his glasses off, fold them and slide them into his vest pocket. All along the way he wonders over grasses bent over, as if bowing to earth to shrug into a heady coat of winter coming, winter coming in. She walks ahead of both of them, unafraid, trembling a blur to coax her skin and her hair to manifest sensibly on her bones. The light flowers the road adding a whisper’s weight to his heart. 2011.03.26—2011.09.30 Forestville, New York
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