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.