My youngest brother sends me poems and they are bruises on a radar that’s having a secret nightmare and I am afraid that if I touch them they will be touched. I’m not an alcoholic. My food eats prayer to starve me. I haven’t heard too many in my family say Palestine and it makes me want to trick them into saying pain. I hate my son but in a very sonlike way. Others hate my son because they think he looks at the moon believing god made stuff. I haven’t been sleeping. It’s okay. My insomnia is a keyhole in the shape of my son’s access to angels. This is a death threat machine. A bomb scare machine. Tomorrow, fake the earth.

A white sock
cannot pray
for the rabbit’s
stomach.

Look at stuff and die.

is my son
alone

ask

The disconnected god of blood

The wasp of loss

I don’t have your headache, kid

A cigarette looks for its teeth
Sleep
for the older
wrist

of proximity’s
nearby
ghost

Movies
lengthen god

Write high

God is still a child. No one knows how to help. Angels doing deer impressions think about stopping. Your mother and father are alive.

A horse and a moth pass through heaven where heaven used to be

All my friends are quiet