conduits of experience with the conduits of our perspectives. the tube with its inside ribs, ribs of view.

for some, what beats within just beats, the most feral piece of us all caged up.

for some, love gets shoved in an airvent and a doll dressed up takes its place to meet the people.

queerness is a great harvest when the fruits are ripe enough to fall on heads.

for some, the brain is a wet field and we’re lucky its ecosystem trusts us.

there are sadly better alignments for our jolted existences. better than getting dressed up to discover it’s the wrong occasion. the mushrooms are laughing at us and it’s a pain that finds every fiber. the ribs tell us, “he just has his days.”

brittle resistance, put the doll to bed gently and walk away with the carbon monoxide sensors singing. we cannot keep suturing. the worms clearly want it. unscrew the vent and bring love out for a nice picnic. any who laugh are laughing alone, i trust the fungal approval. i plant my fingers and feel them humming.