What does a lie or liar mean to you?
Show me the contour of the terrain and describe the taste of your staked ownership, with as few rods as possible.
I am interested in pictures of projections of constellations and maps that demonstrate the singular nature of viewing—you know, the fact that a view point is from a point and you most move that to take a whole thing in.
I propose Kant and the sound of my voice.
I pulled a strand
of meat from
the caverns of my mouth—
stabs and clawing
in raw gums—
and out fell
a gray bird’s leg,
walking with no
and you told me that you dreamed of us dying, the ozone layer failing, and all of our lungs struggling. Our faces were blue, eyes popping cherry vessels. You want to poke more holes in our canopy.
This could be a litany or a jeremiad.
But I know that I’m an asshole.
I scream at cars. It is easier. I chase them.
What would you do if you caught one?
I would wrestle the axle to the blacktop, twist the leg of the tire into a bowl, and throw the thing away. I would find my breath and apologize. I would accept my fault in this argument and fold my hands back into the pockets of my khakis.
I would ask for forgiveness for this mess. I would apologize for saying it.
The blushing blood rushing to the surface grasps harder when set on gray and green. My darling. How sick. I sold you under-cooked chicken and sugarless gum. I told you it was raw, organic, free, and home on the range. Imagine tufts of feathers playing with deer and cantaloupe. No, leave the feathers out. Imagining this meat with movement and body warmth can churn a city stomach. Don’t worry; it’ll all be up and over soon.
To this is the point of a pin covered in angels without end, folded over a neutron, a quark. A woman’s face framed in brunette, lying in a field. What a tune. A fish? I cut strings with the gap of my teeth. Gargle this smile, the smell of cauliflower warming in plastic. I like you better peeling and the skin of you—fake leather—gashed and thrown away. The use of a single electrical socket full of slim fingers. Yes, 200. This is the turn of leaves in wind waiting for the coming storm as my temperature breaks and falls back in a wave—sucking out the oxygen.
I hold all truths to be self-evident.
I need not think further. I turn
in a stream of concrete
and polaroids encased in superglue.
What is the meaning of thirteen
blackbirds? To peel
the wings off? To pluck
To tear the beak off?
To rip out the ribs and find some pearl hidden in still-hot entrails?
Will a jewel give this meat
Will will will words worthy winnings?
The meaning is that it is.
The misconception is that all things are here for you. Not everything is made for you to consume without thought or work. Not every smattering of words is made for you to cut up and find A Meaning. Some things are here as nebulous and relational. You get out what you put in, filling the mortar between the rough stones to complete the wall. Don’t be so stupid as to suggest that something is bad because you aren’t spoonfed an easy story.
Comes the ringing
of a bell
in the distance.
give me back my id.
We are obsessed
with the curve
of our own voices
Is this a millenial affliction or an American one?