I scroll
To where my son
Isn’t dead

Or past
Or past

designed our brother designed a bathtub that couldn’t hold itself in any position long enough to keep god’s gaze in the injured overlap of stillness as paroled by a creator stuck in a shape-addicted form

designed our sister designed her sister as a crying joke inside of a third sister whose hearing loss created the moon

designed the moon designed an egg to break the ribs of the moon

ADVICE

Be born.
Forget.



TO WAR

I will not watch god watch my sons eat nervousness



BESIDE A FIRE I AM DRINKING MYSELF TO DUST

Borders change the silhouette of god

A crucifixion scene where I am too slow to stamp out a cigarette on the surface of the moon.

My awe a spider erasing its own memory in a cube of ice.

Blink
And you'll miss

Microscope.
Endless child. Ghost
at the water fountain.

Outside of the dream a wasp drags mournfully its own hovering as if it could have in this world a single nightmare for a tormented pair of scissors struck angelic in a field of hair. Outside of the dream, communion. Audio of my body’s interview with the cannibal. What else. A price. An infant’s barber, sad as an ear, whose money we remember to have.