Turns in a wet hand
As the other holds the leatherman
Preparations for a dog’s breakfast
As the earth and sky
Also

some call megod.          
my fingers are a housewife that wants you dead for wearing spaghetti straps
and a hairy chest.

she watches the news
as
her son and step-daughter **** in the basement.
they lean in place in nothing but those white cotton socks that get wet and sticky from the laundry detergent spilt across the rubber-
mat.

the *** stained push-up will get left down there.
the machine will tear it out of its wire armatures.

outside the sun is burning the lawn.

outside
the fat black flies are *******.
they drop, heavy- inside the windowsill
after 4 days of fury. the good fight
is lost.
their wings are sparkling

like gems.

We imagine ourselves among the dead, the dying, and the monsters that inhabit those spaces
As a way to feign immortality
In that we are comforted in the temporary untouchability of our placement, just off screen.
Or
Rather
In the shrinking down, to the screen, itself.

the only sentiments
worth
s
e
n
t
i
m
e
n
t
i
n
g
are the  
         ones
pre-agreed-to
inside the

[cyber - cathedral ]

touching is like a hairy arm in a loose long sleeve
dust particulates breathe space between us.
the news comes on the radio.

your fingers    find answers like old magazine
pages.get turned into puppies

i'm yellowing   w/i/t/h
                              them
i had more but i lose it when i lose you to the floor
like chestnut-husks against your skin
like failing to ******* .
   flowers faking it in a field somewhere-
it's enough to

.

c-u-t bangs off.impulsively
shirtless
outside in the/end.november
pre.noon

buzzing the side of a silent head

oh
sebum heart
you are more than the cells rotting in your
body
.than the hive mind of bacteria in your gut
telling you to rip the
place to shreads


in shoals of sticky wet erasure