omnipresent sick to my ******* stomach

dressed in mosquitoes that are woolen
like the lining of my english ******* and
coated in a complex mixture of secreted proteins
i follow the screen of the teleprompter as it storms,
blue and brilliant behind a mess of optical wiring.

lip and teeth
theres bile at the base of my throat
threatening to bust with each greased second
as my brain becomes nauseated by the snow-drift
of sentences burning the back of my eyelids.
i've never believed the things i read
so now i'm mute but spitting, spiteful and unoriginal
visualizing their greyhound decapitations in high colour.
nearly implying transit to our friendship or something
that would only churn the stomach like rich food after famine

so yes, i am the cruelest female of august
shipwrecked on the front porch with the lamplight raining in my mind
and i'm asking the moon as it rises like a solemn word
why i'm sick all the time, sweating
from everywhere but my tear ducts and
waiting for several breeds of cold to attack my corpse

many girls i know like men that glean
like sky-scrapers, brilliant in their hard lines
that rise up from the ash in a fit of man made glory.
somehow, i bypassed this lust for babel opting for flesh
teeming with genesis like the forest behind my cabin.
its heartbeats of life with in death pound beside me
as i lie in bed with the light off and the blinds open
looking at poplars like they're the pillars of Hercules
crudely inscribed with the letters ne plus ultra.
i thought he was in the spirit of lake of the woods
but his roots do not flourish here, they scour for soil
and water finding only dry sand. so at what point
did i stop ghosting the natural curve of the road
engulfed by the yellow of my favourite blouse
reflecting back in the blacks of his eyes like lighthouses
or twin Brittle Bushes from the Sonoran. he is nothing
but an African desert where children absorb warnings
like liberal skin, oblivious to the natural radiance in desolation
and everything that i will eventually let go

there she is: a glimpse of purple in prehistory
highlighted on the bluffs like an exhibit of magnetism.

a zooming highway energizes the distant panorama
making the evening surge like a crowning infant against her back.
it fills the canvas sails of her muscles in gusts of bravado, daring her
propelling the stiff mechanisms of her legs and arms

9000 stars shatter her cheek bones
as the sun severs its main vein making her
just another small boat to crash on an undiluted shoreline

somewhere near the nuclear power plant,
a young thing (not ready to remove those green tights)
observes the peach coloured flame of twin platoons from her window.
they burn at the base of the coffinlid like saliva to raw sugar, uncaring
that soon our sun will bleach it all away & have her
adoring minnesota

but only in the mornings, when
its mint walls and all cherry panels filled with sky.
because she knows, if she lies down flat enough she will
only catch a hint of sherburne roof tops and
fatefully begin her anticipation

for the hammering of sparkling nails deep into to dark purple.

latin can not describe the electricityof blue veins suspended in cala lily skin. they fan out,protazoic, dormant beneath a sea of iced flesh.i grip the sink, peroxide strands of kelp washing upon the banks of my shoulders likethe white-gold sunshinethat would prism behind your chinook archwith all the beauty of a nuclear winter.for the transplant of my frontal lobeto the heaven above his stratus comforter, instructionshave been written. next time he is carried in on a foen wind i am toone, stand very stilltwo, present my brain to the skyand three,wait for the apricotsof sunrise to settleinto the overcast of his eyes.i practise a little and wish i had a veinous hum, skepticalthat an electrocardiogram could detect a beat.

dynamic movement

collar bones acting as natural handholds
i read my names from your lips--- agiocochook

lumps of red ochre stain marble boulders
text is only fifteen feet from the ground

winter cuts skeletal fingers from black bark
we float beneath the blue vitriol of early february

the corpse of my sunglasses lay
between the door and the passenger seat,
grave half forgottenlike an earth folded indian of old

in a tin can on an electric line of string i
admire each stretch mark on the stomach of heaven