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

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

SMALL POEMS AGAINST DYING

**** I carry my untouched handprint into the past disappearance of a photographed leaf. Pain and sickness lose each their memory but lose god’s first. It’s dark in the dark. Lift a spider’s broken finger.

SMALL POEMS AGAINST DYING

In reverse, the baby looks like it's helping the doctors build a machine. I smoke on the roof and my brother gets a nosebleed in the cellar of a house we're not going to buy. Art invents time to impress pain.

SMALL POEMS AGAINST DYING

Erasing the scarecrow’s ankle with a cigarette.

Cutting the hair of the crucified.

Stars
and jobs
and stars.

I dream in longhand. Watch slasher movies to control death. No I will not be doing anything for my mental health. God was the first weapon meant to heal time. We don’t all live here. Blood reads but not with all this blood. Be last, be small. Hide your stomach from emptiness. Check your children for bones. Hairdryer for pills.

DEATH AND A DEATH PLACE

The eyes have only
their childhood

SON IS SHORT FOR LONELINESS

Try
in a coffin
to roll
a cigarette

God’s stomach is a cigarette trying to eat on the moon. I am asleep in my homage to sleep. In hell you have to give birth to everyone you’ve killed. You can’t have your kids.

SECOND MACHINE

I watch movies naked and lightning tattoos god into becoming an addict.  

BELONGING MACHINE

God
up late
with silent
babies

God died doing math in a nightmare. Not everyone was able to hide the body. Men without mothers bit themselves thinking it would lead to nakedness. Angels did the same but thought nothing. Fire chased an empty bus past the cemetery of the three things I couldn’t name. Into a small life of startled handguns, people in photos were born. Gameshows, I said plainly, above a hole the ground touches for being hungry.

No one told me I was crying.
Here is what I thought:
It can’t get lonelier
than the birth of god.
My ribs had a message
for a toothache. Babies
are never
young.

A ghost sets itself on fire with a cigarette once lit to mark the end of emptiness. No one cares about my body. Touch still doesn’t know that skin is the god of touch. I hide my daughter’s mouth in mine and wait for the angel of those on suicide watch to notice my teeth. The ghost is so still it’s looking at hell.  

( or maybe I hide my daughter in a ghost and these are the ghost years lost to the god of fast food whose son is a hunger pain whose son is a hunger whose son’s childishly staged crucifixion shocked time into a fomo that found eating to be a bone from an extra past where I practice chewing upside down get pregnant for no one

I count the same money and think of my body. I send to a stranger a TikTok of a man crushing dried insects with a red rolling pin. I don’t watch anything anymore that requires sound. The last scream I heard was god’s and I named it god. The stranger messages me twice that they recognize the man. A lonely world, but for kids.

I smoke a joint.
Lean
on a horse.

See
a ghost
see
my brother.

Death regrets
thinking
on death. Some

lose babies
to weather
to avoid
violence. Our baby talk

mutes

field recordings
of creatures
taming god.

In a bored
country
ambulance, a shoemaker

guesses
your OnlyFans

password.
Cracks an egg
on the knee
of an angel.

I told the older kids it was in my ear. They shook me a few times and took turns looking. I rubbed my jaw as if to mark myself removed from the tender convincing of permanence. To each other, even now, they describe the wasp. Death makes god last longer.

A violinist puts a knife to the neck of a doll.
Stop drinking.

Teach the baby to **** in its stomach. Go bitemark bald to the burning of tire swings. Pretend you can be nostalgic in America. Do this by having at all times handfuls of woozy spiders that prevent you from making guns of your hands. Do this by drinking. I wasn’t worried but then my phone started working in a dream. In heaven, every mirror is an exit wound.

I want to drink and cook.
I want to watch movies and not drink.
I want my invisible teeth
abused
by color.
I want my doctors to say seashell
*******
syndrome.
I want these meds to sadden drones.
I want fatigue. Hell’s rubber mirror.
I want my children to be so exhausted that they pray
to a ghost
that’s praying
to them.
I want your poems
your shorter
poems
to drive
death mad.
I want to crucify my tongue.
I want a wasp to crucify my tongue.
I want shape
to burn faster
than form. Nudes
to zoo
nakedness.
A fed raccoon.
Or a dog that believes.

I can count on my teeth the number of your teeth gone soft in the knees of boys. There’s nothing you could’ve done to make me beautiful. The ghost of body image believes in one ghost. We’re all too young but see anyway the unfinished angel blowing on the stomach of christ. Mother from her father wants only the pea behind his eye. Distance is clickbait for god.

Two birds with one deer.

Touch is touch
teaching touch
the backstroke.

The ****
think snow
can die.