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 would tell you of Barbara Guest.
of the air. of the waves. of the air and
the waves. The movement of the face
against a black screen, stark and stuttering
through the emotion of a deep well. a wave.
stitch suture my
any bundle of vocal
cords that would
tell me what today
adds up to what
hand to counter to hand to bathroom to in between pants and warm panties to the bottom of a curve of a toilet to the flush of the great flowing nothing of the sewer
Puking points puking projectiles to band up bang on bang under carriage the underbelly of life. Look, no—don’t look, look at endpoints at house at road at grass look on elsewhere or else and always going or leaving or coming or parking here that is aflame floating around this snake cauldron.
I never used
to never noosed
Quetzecoatl knew who
Dear Abby, where’s
your Nee-o-Not-zee Father?
tearing hauling ass
rest these weary eyes
Wire and plastic splayed and spread spread eagle eagle spread at top watching its blossoms fall and tremble and tremble and fall.
Make circles around the round in the round of the heart hurt and knives in the back of the front was at one time here at one time the knives of newborns and newborn lovers.