What’s left of the Lucky Charms I mix in with a little bit of Life creating a tincture a serum a salve what-have-you that just might cure okay staunch I mean plug this feeling of being lost at sea this soupy blue milk is all I’ve got to slurp down dribble out so derelict have I become at prayers.
whiteout conditions signing my will
The house is empty. It looks plagiarised. Can you mail it some poems, words, with the right stake of grammar? Maybe some love poems because it has suffered enough of oppressed poetry on politics, wars, homelessness, economy, all that bloodlessness captured in words.
she hums his favourite
The world is an act of monomania. We are drawn towards definitions, standard synonyms like without them the whole entirety of a thing will be plainly lost and never found. In this act we forget that we discover the best when we don’t bind, don’t compel, when we just refuse to label.
the strung words that never
we all have been so busy on the committee doing all the the the things that they talked to us about and I think it will help the teachers with things like this because they’re all about town and not really paying attention to the oh what’s the word you know to to all of those things that everyone says should happen because it’s not that that that we don’t want them to come with us but they need to be able to get offices like the ones on campus which were really just perfect and they had huge feasts with all us kids there on the farm and it was great great fun to go through the the coat closet and put on their big oversized coats and see the hairdryer there and so was the typewriter
without a murder
the delicate arch was on fire at midnight
a few stars had swum like earthworms
through hardened concrete & though 1000 starlings
will fail to coalesce into something beyond
that same old fear of dying young & faintly remembered
the whole scene grew unbearably refined
until the moment Miss Utah sharted audibly
her tiara bore striking resemblance to that dismal time when
you & I were on opposite sides of the möbius stripmall
smoking lucky strikes because it was something we all felt was desired of us
as if self-immolation was all we could ask of any architect
for whom the neon glow of the world’s largest McDonald’s
eclipses the quarter moon without any fear of intimacy
fingertips tracing her invisible history Blaschko’s lines