It's not as if everything was floating at the time
we weren't bewildered by anything at all the
third dimension is a twin born of my eyes the
fourth dimension is merely an abortion
It's not as if we were splitting the atom [ˈadəm]
the basic unit of a chemical element a.k.a. that which
cannot be divided by any part of the physical world
It's not as if I could shuffle my soul like a deck of cards
here in the garden we bury the dirt underneath the flowers
and you could find the original earth if you listened hard enough
here everything is millions of years new
But it's not as if we're all floating or if we were we wouldn't even be able to tell the difference because in our ignorance everything was as perfect we were
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 1:51 AM UTC
I give my lungs,
to a one-eyed machine,
at the intersection of law and order,
and dividing the atom,
on which it stands,
strong and masculine,
naked and invisible,
with enough gravity to make us all fall.
Amen.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 3:36 PM UTC
Hell no, last year
I wiped the petals off an artificial flower using the dust from the dust bowl, my grandfather starved to death trying to swallow his own neck, my neice has made an army of stones that she's gathered from the garden
Hell no, last year
I am up to my neck in things I don't have, not that it matters if we're all standing on chairs, I gathered up pieces of plastic this morning and ate them instead of recycling
Hell no, I stand in the middle of the highway and light a cigarette
I don't consider this dangerous
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 2:08 PM UTC
It all fell into the water
they dropped off into the
hole in the earth that's
no volcano, it's where the
moon came from that's
the great ironing board
that they use to starch
God's shirts.
It all must be pressed shut like the plastic lips of
the prophets who buy furniture, like the image of
the captain riding a bicycle, like the pain of a bee
sting underneath your eye, draw up a photograph
of the survivors, this is what you lost and where
to find it, this is the origin of time travel received
by the most primitive humans. That's where you put
your hands when you want to take us home.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 5:18 PM UTC
my father has been drowning goldfish in the lake: forces me to clean the windows, take the trash down to a ridge over the wasteland, draw a graph of the supply-and-demand of our business, then refill the fish tank
my mother has been having flashbacks to her wedding: tells me not to play in the street, reduces me to rubble during a bombing, has me write a paper outlining the culture across the sea, then tells me never to get married
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 9:54 AM UTC
In the beginning the world was perfect, and small enough to fit inside a marble, like a book you can judge by the cover, in the beginning was the word.
And then everything exploded, and nothing could be reduced back down to a single atom, and nothing was alone, and the word was with God.
And everything was pulled together to form the earth, and they divided things up into animals, vegetables, and minerals, and then two became one and the word was God.
And then the land was molded into valleys and mountains, and nothing could be created or destroyed in the ocean of matter, and the spirit of God was floating over the water.
In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God, and the spirit of God was floating over the water.
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth, and he saw that it was good.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
pull the lever
and flush steroids
into the water
to make the fish grow larger
soon we'll have to buy
a bigger ocean
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 10:40 AM UTC
as I age the environment around me is also aging at the same time, it's impossible to remain in one place,
and near my family reunion: my father is still digesting a piece of gum, he says "I was never the type to believe in horoscopes," says "let's beat this guy up and take his telescope"
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
My God is the best God my umbrella keeps rain
from touching my forehead, a stone they roll away
I take a drawing for a basket of airplanes, rainbows
over movie posters a city that fell into the ocean
Pushing the envelope against the rain, I fake a letter
of trigonometry declaring myself to be a dead body
A tattoo of a drum beating under a cloud **** me
up with a conundrum, using double negative numbers
Probably a fake whirlpool, the natural condition of
radioactive material, a sound dripping out from a hole
I run open the door with a flag, they stole the border
back from the goverment, pretending to be Indians
I wish I was a moth, to find more comfort in lightbulbs.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 10:58 AM UTC
I haven't eaten all day,
outside that cats wail like
an ambulance siren.
Then everything goes quiet,
like the body of one who has died.
Inside the kitchen I drink
from the right side,
of the faucet.
I wait for the ladder to disappear,
to the attic
to the ceiling
to the roof of my dream.
I throw my soul into the garbage disposal.
I tie my shoes,
with the ink from today's newspaper.
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC