Your mother sleeps to mourn the secret ghost of your death

Horse
has its blurry
life

You cannot count people whose fingers are worried. Eternity eats a clock in paradise. Touch can’t write. Bliss is a trap. Imagine having the perfect day. Perfect forgetting. I really wanted to like that book. Some rice, some wristcutting. My son disappears but only when I think about him. I sang in church and spelled words correctly. Jesus got close to passing out but in the end had to fake it. I held small jobs in the basements of movie blood warehouses. When not dying I felt odd setting in a hospital an alarm that would trigger no meaning. Wim Wenders is a no notes name. God isn’t much. Silence in the bomb’s empty stomach.

bodies don’t last long
in heaven
a study
was done
the circumcised
smoke
too fast
I don’t
love data
these babies
letting god
take shape

designed a seasick photo designed a darkroom to keep the empty trap from dreaming of god’s unsurprised stomach

designed we designed a terrified mirror to sleep with the angel who imagined our seeing

designed your mother’s mouth designed a grape all could eat from memory

Without Jesus I don’t think God recovers the password of every angel. I’m poor and I yell at people. Melancholy nonsense. It’s the blue comes inside the blue. A dove is bitten by a moth. A baby cries for a baby out. Language won’t tell you what to say. My cigarette has two dreams

plastic
and arthritis)

I eat until food touches food.
A real gun

should do more.

My knees pray to sugar. I name my sadness after a mountain. Inside the mountain a flower bends to impress worship. No more poems about drinking. No more singsong scarring in the baths I take to burn myself. In a video store a preacher falls asleep emptying the late bibles of my belief. You can’t tell because of the starfish on his face, but that’s Jesus. So what if I yell at a friend in the throes of soft **** capitalism. Oh moon of blank want. I eat myself out to make my brothers laugh. Oh scarce feast of intimacy. My cousin’s band has the best name ever. Everyone is alive. Let’s get high and love our moms.

Two wasps spooning in puberty’s microscopic dream

A newborn’s eye as a moth
of blood

Glass of milk
afraid of god