Jul 2017
0503-2017
one day my son is dying, the next he is not, and the next he is. day four: prayer is dismissive, but welcome. whose past is how we left it? body is delivered twice. beginning and end. nostalgia and wardrobe. middle eats everything. it snowed and I thought my blood was melting. could be the way you reason that happens for a reason. I was a kid when mouse was a kid. there’s no hope and I hope.
0504-2017
his weight a cricket on a piano key
0508-2017
disability as competition, jesus. and then these over here are arguing about the use of the word, disabled. here we will coin transformative indifference. a body is not a teachable moment. as a parent, I think I’ll take the shortcut. meanwhile, I have a glossary of terms you’ll never need that you can read beneath a dog-eared, thumbless god.
0513-2017
sickness in the young is god’s way of preventing nostalgia from becoming the god I remember
0515-2017
there is sickness by repetition and sickness by living once. echo hasn’t the chance to go deaf. you breathe and say god gives out no more than that which I can handle. the next breath is mine. god gave us god.
0602-2017
I was beautiful but now I’m ugly. (now) being the most recognizable symbol of the present. this is the silence I speak of. my son says (more ball) and you hear (moon bone). he is very sick. his moon has bones.
0613-2017
aside: we don’t come out faking our death, but are born because birth can’t sleep
0620-2017
it takes four juveniles to recruit his thumb. his fist has been called: hitchhiker practicing yoga in a junkyard. I cannot visit the instant ruin that forgiveness creates. because I want to.
0627-2017
magician, maybe, on a rabbitless moon- oh cure. oh silence afraid to start a sentence.
0627-2017
aside:
I study lullaby
and lullaby
bruise
0706-2017
the disappearance surrounding said event.
a horse belly-up in water’s blood.
see telescope. also, cane of the blind ghost
0719-2017
today was more your hand than the photograph it was cut from. a family of five in the bed of the unremembered present.
one day my son is dying, the next he is not, and the next he is. day four: prayer is dismissive, but welcome. whose past is how we left it? body is delivered twice. beginning and end. nostalgia and wardrobe. middle eats everything. it snowed and I thought my blood was melting. could be the way you reason that happens for a reason. I was a kid when mouse was a kid. there’s no hope and I hope.
0504-2017
his weight a cricket on a piano key
0508-2017
disability as competition, jesus. and then these over here are arguing about the use of the word, disabled. here we will coin transformative indifference. a body is not a teachable moment. as a parent, I think I’ll take the shortcut. meanwhile, I have a glossary of terms you’ll never need that you can read beneath a dog-eared, thumbless god.
0513-2017
sickness in the young is god’s way of preventing nostalgia from becoming the god I remember
0515-2017
there is sickness by repetition and sickness by living once. echo hasn’t the chance to go deaf. you breathe and say god gives out no more than that which I can handle. the next breath is mine. god gave us god.
0602-2017
I was beautiful but now I’m ugly. (now) being the most recognizable symbol of the present. this is the silence I speak of. my son says (more ball) and you hear (moon bone). he is very sick. his moon has bones.
0613-2017
aside: we don’t come out faking our death, but are born because birth can’t sleep
0620-2017
it takes four juveniles to recruit his thumb. his fist has been called: hitchhiker practicing yoga in a junkyard. I cannot visit the instant ruin that forgiveness creates. because I want to.
0627-2017
magician, maybe, on a rabbitless moon- oh cure. oh silence afraid to start a sentence.
0627-2017
aside:
I study lullaby
and lullaby
bruise
0706-2017
the disappearance surrounding said event.
a horse belly-up in water’s blood.
see telescope. also, cane of the blind ghost
0719-2017
today was more your hand than the photograph it was cut from. a family of five in the bed of the unremembered present.
