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.

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

I was writing in the dream to you about the dream. A quick note, really. How to replace a lightbulb. Treat a deer bite. How you should never let someone cut your hair while it’s raining. A little story about your mother selling baby teeth at the crucifixion. Not yours. See pic.

The people started naming their bodies

Time is still leaving Eden.
We go through so many animals.

Design
a late
animal.

God is everywhere.
Obsessed
with birthplace.

God recorded nothing

by tomorrow I will have run out of the week I need to make it through

We are pain’s first memory

They were alive
when he left

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.

is there maybe
a way
to come back
from my living

a rare
disorder
wrapped
in a cigarette

safe
sad

a skin cell
dead
to the face
of god
an angel

designed
by an angel
a baby
walking

too early
an egg
cracked
in a star
please

can we put
in our arms, that

(something small
(that walked