I am not one to placate beggars of description and hardly know where I lived besides.  early on I picked up a stone and my friends passed it around after I threw it.  few went braless.  *** was something of a docile raccoon cub in a half globe of ice.  fathers all were barked down from the same tree by the same poets.  in the previous I will be refusing to enter the trailer home of my ninth grade love where for all I learn her hound might still be waiting for its ******* to fall.  I will inspect only what is already true.  if in the following you do not come upon a series of blank pages just when the getting is good than my publisher was chosen too quickly and my brilliance is of less remain.  as I am well versed in parental infighting I have little vote but to edit my mother and abridge my father and say they were kids looking at an ultrasound of an empty stomach other than my mother’s.

her arms
gone thin-

her gait
these two
dark fish
chaperone
recalls me
to the delirium
of a prison

yard

cat-

her stomach
though
bulges
     is an upturned
bowl
of milk-

     it
that would
normally
disappear
before
my eyes

disappears
     after

the man
I’ve only
just met
sober

     but have
     arm in arm
     week one
     through week
     three
     been jolly
with

is

     for the sake of his mother

revising

his life
cycle
from

****, sadness, balloons

to

sadness, ****, balloons

---

     it is either my attention span or my nakedness
in concrete poetry
that keeps me
from god

     (when a scar of thunder / outs itself / I am blue)

or bluish

     (like a sock in a blue
      coat’s
      pocket)
      
---

     by the
of a sudden
time
the man
is tolerable
he ha(s)
a number of

rethought

balloon

i.

chemo
makes
of each bone
a wind chime
which
in poetry
would be
some first
house
beauty
but  

in the body
of my father

    no

ii.

it is cruel to hang anything above a baby’s crib

iii.

I can only guess
I was happy
in the womb
with how
my mother
looked

I swear
my guts
darken
dad

as I am in
your spot
looking
at the sea-

mother
insisted
again
on heels

     but has changed
     in other ways-

you must’ve walked
to get to those places
you stood
but it’s the standing
I recall

and the quiet-

the length
of my life
is abnormal

     but goes
     undiscovered

I am looking
to be sad
whispers
who else
but the blind man
in the poem
previous