Wee little shoots and sprouts
now kitchen pepper plants
nestle frightened
At the first lesson the wind
tossed me. I spent most of afternoon in
the drink, too slight to keep the boom
from swinging wild.
autopsy reads: there is no more water to shut
the fire clean. this ruin is balanced, on a hem,
tipsy. i don’t know which to pray god holds.
two options [the bucket breaks, the water stills]
my maternal ancestry traces to snakes
which means i am tabooed from biting
into the boa's limbs i know the taste
of rebellion
I throw cash at the badly behaved science-eating loneliness
from my crowd, & all I get in return is a house party filled
with familiar strangers.
game-making, game-breaking
banging against virtual walls with virtual fists
with enough modification
this game/body/world can be something else
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I watch the aunties’ hands
crescent dumpling wrappers
Over dinner, they want to know
what the newspapers say.
littleness ferments on my fingers
channeling smell of oddities
my name like a hunter and my name walks
making arrangements
beside a dream haunted by a mouth
it is the conjunction of my stunted geometry
this shape of longings
Things of cul-de-sac come in a round phase:
black orb, wearing a Nike stain,
waiting for some English—to spin
the glyphs: a keeled font, a schwa
rebent in a sound.
Sick
Ordinary
Unlocalizable Toilet
All A Toilet
headlight masks and wind shields hold
our faces flush against deep steeped roads
which shrinks a landscape pressed to know
how to leave & leave & leave behind
The point I’m trying to make is that__ is fractal. Like broccoli,
like snail shells. Like a hurricane. To attempt to classify
as noun or verb is to miss the point. is process, is function, is
spinning snowflakes out of chaos.
i could never speak like generations ago
and tell you it was all true
but sleep easy knowing it was no lie
babies were born
we tend toward moot
curl into dim mornings
set birdsong to snooze
ears plugged against purrs
Grow out, a collapsed lung,
an arrogant rinse in autumn,
perspective-tense from concentrated sun.
Cut one in half, down, scour how
the rings form, ripples blood
music through wild paws
“I am yr acquired” “taste” “nettle, thistle, weed” “I am yr Covenant” “with the future” “many fine things” “long agone” “accessible through me” “extract history through” “I am yr bore hole” “into” “many fine things” “& a little more” “was I Ill?” “was I taken?” “was I Ill?” “was I ill-mannered?” …
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I still don’t know what face to make in pictures
I’ve lived for 28 years
And I’ve never known
Where to look
How to smile
I used to think that I did not like the way I look
i never knew grief was a verb
synonym for
to sprint; to vomit; to grip
goodbyes are a space
hanging off a harvest moon