FIVE O CLOCK IS A BIRTH CANAL SUITABLE TO DIE INSIDE OF
The church on the hill grew arms
to harvest an outstretched garden
and organs like flowers. How quaint
the reptilian theater, still sort of free
for johns seeking empty skirts.
Apparently the tomb keeps spinning,
the tour bus never stops and here I am
without my lucky murderin’ gloves.
Digress for love, watch it die
in the arch undertow of a bed
like sea on a suddenly flat Earth.
Here lies a poem detailing the fortuitous
acquisition of a dead woman’s computer.
Here lies a poem about bathrooms
that clean themselves, about how
cheese toast sticks throughout the day,
about the shortage of flying cars, how
reincarnation feels like a hangover,
how romantic it can seem to face a wall,
about cascading fire caught up in a wind
whose every lick breaks into a thousand
species of meatless bone.
Here lies a poem about the breath
freshening qualities of moss.
Somewhere five o clock comes
crashing into awareness like a birth
canal suitable to die inside of.
Somewhere dawning skies crack open
and a humongous sleep approaches.
Honk honk everyone is wrong.
Sometimes I wonder what my computer must think of me.
a shitless surface
get over everything
WHAT ARE HANDS
The perception of
unobtrusive heads on
the necks of children.
in the personal tubes
of inner space.
A pile of ladders
gradually feeding legs
too adept at sex
to not be sluts.
Sleepy arms like
arranged on the floor.
The last window
heavy as an ocean
WAX BEFORE WINTER
a blind man was duped
into giving the covenant blessing
to a dude in a furry suit.
Unwilling to commit to stubble
Esau gets the generational shaft
when he trades his birthright
for a bowl of lintel stew.
After dad sends him
on a fetch quest for venison,
mom tells his brother
to go kill some nearby kids
and cover his peach fuzz
with their skins
while she prepares
a steaming pile of lies.
Jacob says something like
‘that seems a bit shiesty’
and Rebekah tells him
to quit being a little bitch.
He went to his father saying
'It is totally I, your son Esau'
and Isaac is all like ‘are you sure,
because you sound a lot like
my other son, whom, I might add,
would have a very clear motive
to hustle me thusly.’
'Check out the neckbeard'
Jacob bids triumphantly.
Isaac slaps his forehead,
says ’whatever, I’m hungry’.
At some point after dinner
and Isaac blesses him.
Esau returns and whines
for what seems like an eternity.
Everyone throws their hands up
with a whaddya gonna do.
outlandishly unprofound poem relaying a message of hope and mitigation in the face of overwhelmingly needless superfluousness
I killed at least three
maybe four living things today
It represents a significant portion
of my yearly income. The rest I traded
for things that will eventually kill me!
Some of it was not even mine!
Sometimes I take a blade to my face.
It makes me look presentable!
A concerned someone approached
the other day; attempted to save my soul.
Can you believe the unmitigated gall?
Then they put a body in the ground
and everyone went about their business.
I was literally squeezed out of a vagina.
It probably hurt, but the lady isn’t even mad!
When I was five, I put a seed in the dirt
and now it could effortlessly plant me.
I’m not sure if you’re aware, but the trees
are actually breathing. This is not a metaphor.
I am starving. I am dying of thirst.
I’m so full I will never make it to the trash.
The yogurt expired today. I couldn’t even.
You mean I must pay someone to heal me?
The cat is shitting in the house. Shitting.
The air conditioner is woefully loud and
I cannot have sex on this ceramic tile.
Sometimes I lose consciousness
for hours on end. Supposedly this is normal.
Unimpeachable texts say I am now breathing
manually, but respiration continues unabated
despite marginal brain activity.
In fact, I can’t even write without it
hovering over my shoulder.
If fiery tacos were man purses or mockery
Is that a proper vagina or chaos? Toothbrushes
Do you have bro-fi? No but the gambits are nimble
the snarl was captivating like loathsome beans
The world is mal-adjusted like memes or cat
bearding the urges the writhes of fish stilettos
Is that a gif in your picket or are you justice
Nope it’s not zooplankton it’s a zoopratiscope
Diary of a South-Flying Bird
Hasten the morning.
Watch the mice bury
themselves in the ground.
I spent the evening
humming like a window fan
to render your warmth.
North of Georgia,
the hills were so bird-like.
I didn’t realize.
I was just falling
the way dead birds do
to escape the nest.
When I die,
my bones are to be canned
in my mother’s kitchen.
When I die,
embalm my broken wings
with flightless ascension.
Seed text: Pages from a friend’s diary
with her unimpeachable consent I assure you.