gesture 6

enough
about me
these gaps
in your grief

In the movie hidden by me watching god

In the movie hidden by me watching, god gets in the ambulance ever time

In the movie hidden by my watching

Their poor happiness

The child running after a wild tire they’re poor

Poor acne the handwriting it becomes

Angel acne a bone popping out of an echo in the ghost of my soul

The handwriting it becomes when put by the handless

On that tire gone

God of hands

gesture 7

Loneliness spreads into regions of sleep never before undiscovered

When I say my son is dead you can’t say if he is or isn’t

In a field of handpicked *** follow not the glow of a sobbing fingernail

Recognize time when I see it

I’ve put my hands on my brothers hoping they will want to equally die. In the dream it was me checking on me to see if I was faking sleep. You can change the mirror’s past with the face of god. In the dream they find ice in my stomach and shatter notions of conception concerning dying glass angels. **** my aunt again I dare you. Eden had to be super small.

I bring wine to the table but also my will to place the blood piano on the front lawn and play it for the vomiting passersby. Touch writes the unreadable bible on privacy. Fill a baseball with the stop sign’s blood. One death is hard to process do you think Death has a story about a particular life? In the afterlife of your gone-ness I am de-blued by shock. I write stuff like that because I can’t write more than three times with my wrist. I know you’re tired of me carving belief into the face of god but please **** the golden poet who knows we can’t eat food. Howl non-starlike into the flash of the eye-prone before. Dear addict ask image what god did only once.

My unreachable
mother, new

and unreachable.

All the bodies I’m sent into are in pain.
A caterpillar bellies across an hour that’s been touched

by the last
butterfly’s
moment…

I know that’s easy. I’m not here
for the writing.

A cornfield made of rain

A ruined ghost
showing the palms
of my mother’s
hands
to infants
ecstatic
with eyesight

The low miracle’s most vanished
pleasure carried to its invisible end

It must’ve been the blackest of obsidian
The bleakest of tragedies
That fastened your bones together
And tainted what could’ve been yellow

And Misery must’ve held a millennium thirst
When she drank from the Styx
And spit you onto the world
To poison the ones who taste of it

Because even the flesh of the cold blooded
Will glaciate into an iron snow  
Will freeze over like rotted autumn roots
At the reticence of your touch

Yes, there must have been some devilish prophecy
Spoken on the day that you ascended from the embers
The day the stars were misaligned
Off kilter and yearning to return to virtue

I’m sure that it must’ve taken a mountain of karmic cycles
Each more sinister, more corroded than the last
To shape the quiet vessel
That carries your deafening poison

Unequivocally—
Certainly—
Truthfully—

Threaded into the fabric of you was a venomous wound
And it bleeds and it bleeds and it bleeds
And you thrash and curse and wail into the nothingness
And we both know that even the nothingness pities you now

But I swear, hopeless one—
I swear I swear I swear
If not for fate
And the wickedness of your heart
I think that I would pity you too

An arm cast
in a long
heaven
raises
not from birth
a hand

100 bodies
learn to count

The mirror remains an unfaithful marker
of those Ohioans
presently addicted
to the speedy
sameness
of decay

Re-hungered

a needle
boils
its nearness
to the doll’s
backbone

I don't sleep anymore.
I can almost see
god seeing
a child.
My stomach remembers every olive.
I have two phones
but no favorite.