I die and look for my mother.
I die and look for yours.

I die and my brothers don’t.
I die in Ohio to impress
with a bruise
an icicle. I die and my daughter

I die and my sons

I die
and which
of my sons

I die and god says
that is not
salt
that is movie
salt

Death gets over nobody, I die

there

I die on somebody’s birthday

I die bc pretty
Because I can

I die where
I die with a rich interior death

I die for rich poets who’ve time to be good parents

Love dies from god

I die and see an uncle trying to drink his eyes back
I die and you can’t
I die in a shadow from three thumbtacks

meant
for the savior
of a self
harming sister

I die in my father’s dead rabbits
all of them
die once

Dear Ethel Cain

The lie of my childhood became a lie. Let's compare suicide notes. Turtle, ashtray, ghost. Time is an angel knocked unconscious by a star. I had an idea for a resurrection story but the 3D glasses failed lol. I remember your fake mother on the set of a zombie movie telling *** jokes for the dead. Confession number one: I was born without a missing finger. Our bathroom door falls asleep before we do.

Dear Ethel Cain

An abuser loses their phone, their fingerprint. Longing faces its first deadline. The eating competition of our dreams is on its third snow delay. The work my body puts into me is killing my children. I think of that fingerprint for 100 years in sunscreen time. My skin turns white from being seen by a ghost. My teeth go grey. And comb their fear.

Dear Ethel Cain

I lick sugar from the windshield of a deer-shaped car. Make a bird from a hunger ballon. Have an ****** that belongs in a stomach to lovebombed plastics. Catch photophobia from the ghosts of angel suicides. Fix a machine with a drinking machine. Listen, glisten. Etc.

Dear Ethel Cain

A microwave in a wellness center is left alone long enough to miss a bible. Fate does its work early. Babies make loss fun again. I try with my gut health to stop time. Angels, born on, turn off.

Dear Ethel Cain

The surgeon puts an egg in my son's mouth then shoots herself. On earth, we refuse the naked. The angels think we're weird for losing teeth. The last time I wrote sick was the first time the television marked the last time we'd seen a bug. It's not true but here we say all circles are male. Longing is a cult created by birth. I don't care. Belief invented your mother and my. The past dies of narration.

Dear Ethel Cain

I am maybe too high. I want to speak to how their nowness robs us of being present. I was giving head to seashells that heard the breaking knee. Or fasting in the pawn shop of my father’s early sleep. Anyway. Hearing an apple cry keeps the angel’s fossil dry. Nearer nostalgia I’m not to thee.

Dear Ethel Cain

Knowing I have skin makes my skin stay put. I am perhaps in my last translated body and am maybe hearing creatures compare voice apps for crucifixion survivors. In the dream that cannot undream the dream of my assault, two men who share a neck find part of my stomach in my son’s brain. I was wrong. Everything I touch forgets being my hand.

Dear Ethel Cain

Hell doesn’t have a language but everyone goes there to talk. Your ears are ears to my ears. I continue to want to die less than my children want to be killed. Yesterday was yesterday. I could afford a room in the aforedoom. The future is a rumor started twice by a violence we remember being able to stop. The poor play shape, touch, reentry. Find four hands.

Dear Ethel Cain

An angel overcomes a severe stutter by playing musical chairs with two boys who years ago were struck at different times in the head by the same horseshoe. A stone thinks of a stone thinks of a. A line of computer code erases the rib of the snake it was written to memorize. I’m not telling you this anymore than I’m.

Dear Ethel Cain

I’m in the afterhood of childlessness. No one is dancing. I say things above my dying body that sound final. A cigarette is a flashlight with a toothache. Look for whiskey’s underwater church.

Our nakedness had little to do with the most immediate creatures deciding not to **** us. Eating grew on the tree of loneliness. A cigarette is a star de-aged by god.

There was a second story told where Jesus got sick quietly and died watching his mother rub her wrists together. Angels want bodies they can leave.

My mouth somewhere open in the unmarked church of naming, I cover my face when I go to sleep. Each night god believes in you a star loses its memory of being seen. We don’t always know how to feel attractive and worried. Angels tell our toothaches to imagine a fly living too long with a small part of the sun’s brain. Your breast dreams of the hole in my lung. Eyes are on the way.

No one
on the moon
gets dragged
by a train.

A star
milks
a split
baby. It’s noon

and you are choosing
******
for god.

The land is ours where we cry on stilts.

Touch has taken every handwriting class in hell. Eden is Eden because it’s the only place god doesn’t remember. Do not worry about where I am. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down. Jesus is futuristic trauma for those sleepwalking from the waist down.

I cut myself near a doll that wasn’t meant to look like me.

Nakedness,
find your nudes.

My son stops biting.
Our teeth
have no thoughts.

Mother with her paintbrush and me with my fever. There are no miracles. There are no miracles because of what miracle does to memory. When I fall on the ice, ache takes one of my hands as a shortcut. Never reach god.

~Notes for film 8, the last~

I notice the bathroom floor isn’t healing. There’s a roach in the house of the miracle-worker. Just one, just one. Age isn’t here, but it’s not a thing of the past. What I thought was guilt, was guilt. God’s god is touch. Worldview, worldvoid. The alarmist nostalgias of my faith. Seeing double is a sickness that disappears my children. My password made me look like this. Nonsense, angel. I am lifting with my arms

red weights on a white lawn while the leash of a blue dog tells my wrist a secret about my neck.

Mirror invents the ghost.

film 7

Angels cut themselves in invisible changing rooms. Ohio covers god’s tattoos with ice. I am watching on my phone a television lose blood in front of my son’s old breathing machine. Fire isn’t everywhere.

film 6

The face of god trapped in a scratch on a whale’s eye. A mother’s mouth shaped to shrink the cigarette’s brain. Ice that heals the *** lives of record collectors dying in Ohio. My unfollowed life of absolute distraction. A star above it that is a ghost branded by a moth. The spotlight that moves the abuse at last the spotlight

Soon is what everyone dies of

Acne is the only intimacy that god allows the lonely.

Face
is the star
nearest
to death.

Everyone is writing. There’s no sound in heaven and ghosts are the teeth of god. I can’t even read I’m so sick. I have been a boy not wanting to know about *** and I have also been a boy wanting to kiss a crow put to sleep by god’s footprint. I looked it up twice on my phone how to set oneself on fire. The body is a boring dream. I can’t enter a building without hearing a baby stop breathing in the uncrushed stomach of my inner child. Someone says oh look and it’s just something outside that should be there.

Be the false thing that god worships. Lead hyposexuals to the sleepwalker tired of finding your body. I am desperately dumb. America is ruined because the destroyed parts of America angel no creature to a stop. Imagery is a measure of detail's molasses loss. I can't go back, or I'd take that out.

The food we ordered is gone. Suicide, weight loss, and snow. No one takes Ohio with them. The baby burns itself on a baby it wants to recognize. The void is a bird dreaming in the airway of a ghost. Praying turns me toward prayer. I hurt my son but I hurt my son in front of someone doing the wrong thing with pain. There’s a way to tell god that we think about death.

Death is for the slowly dying. I ate in hell so quickly I was forgotten by salt. I’m never naked, but write for years that I am. God is killing the angel I impressed with shyness. I’ve never told any person in one sitting three things about my body. My father had drawn the crucifixion and my mother was showing me in a poem the only time sleep was caught outside with death. Stop loving me. Start.

Memory is the afterlife of existing. In the dream, my dream is a dog made of blood. I’m sorry that you cannot sleep. My mouth is a bone writing to a bitemark. Bees from your childhood are trapped in bees. There’s no god and no way for god to know.

You can't drink in the bathtub if your son is disabled. The eyes are more violent than what they see. People standing on a haybale pretending to be high shouldn't be killed by a truck. There is one year of *** and two of snow. I unmirror in the dream I was left in for the bot that I was.

The heavy heaven horse
headaches

The infant cinemas

The invisibly tragic
frostbitten
palmist…

Go on, son

Toy blood teething in the church of my ear

Sleep was just here. That, and being godless. I try to mourn.

Eat nothing, ghost. Watch with an angel the earliest body horror as hallucinated by god’s mother. Point out to me on shadow’s brief map the dot of my burnt sleep. Sing to your father three safe words per image. Deadname yourself in front of touch. I want to age and to not be loved.

My clothes burn in the dryer. No one is drinking. Hurt mice turn dreamside up to sigh footprints away from a naked garden. I flicker motherly through sight’s obsession with possessing my eye. Your elbow clicks. Your elbow clicks and it’s still genocide. Forget the spine that moans my son to sleep. We have to see this angel getting sick on a birthmark.

film 5

Each creature in heaven thinks it's the only creature in heaven looking for god. I itch at night with the short life of my skin. In a world without touch, I am sleeping you with my hand. Anyway, I want to say I'm sorry to my mother and my father for keeping them awake. For making them read this right now.

Even loss
gives up

No god called me into this poem.
No god
calls me out.

A tooth looking for your mother is not the same as a tooth searching. Lived experience is our jawless god’s highest fraud. Dear squirrel, we don’t eat creatures made of ghost worry. Future is the aftermath of the future. I’m ugly in heaven.

in the blue church of my father’s thirst

I wear it

(hunger)

like an eye-patch, and emerge

starless

from the uncooked blood
of my shadow

film 3

Tell them this was handwritten. Tell them Ohio locked itself in the bathroom to imagine deer. Tell them god’s eyesight was too still. Tell them I couldn’t sleep. Tell them I couldn’t die, but that I bled to sleep in a field I was eating. Tell them the field is gone. The field is gone, they believe.

I lose in the dream

each child
in a way
I’ve imagined

film 2

I am everyday older than my brother. Those years I did not have him, he did not have me. Gods die in the star they sleep in. There are eyes in my sadness when I look at my sons.

film 1

An angel eats a mouth and sees for shape a horseshoe deep in the story of satan’s toothache. My sister’s hair listens while I grow nothing. I leave the poem briefly to raise an addict and the addict says pain is god reincarnated while alive. You don’t come back.

I wanted to smoke and look at water. I turned left at a tipped over gas can and walked until I heard fireworks. A small tv was showing god the hole it needed help making. A dryer with a baby in it was won by two mothers. They tried to scream. I made a sound and the sound stayed that way for good. I recognized my kids for years.

Design
a late
animal.

God is everywhere.
Obsessed
with birthplace.

the lamp
eating
its bowl
of light

Some animals have had success dying behind god’s back.

I squeezed in an airplane
your hand until it broke.

(that toy
car
from our blue
mom)

Storks
can’t lose
blood.

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