Grandmother clock longing to tock. Her second hand pleading to sweep the face. Graze the six or touch the twelve. It had been a long stretch of silence since the lithium drained.

Grandfather bottle is empty too. He hit that babysitter like the side of a parked car. The chrome finish—split. It had been a long stretch of time since he avoided a headline.

Son long gun hanging on the wall. Displayed like the prey he sprayed with powder. A face unrecognizably rouged with bits slipping down the drain. It had been a long stretch of night since he loved his own blood.

Father three candles on a window sill. A distance spread like an animal hide. Brittle to the touch—no formaldehyde. He reaches into the moonlight, but it had been a long stretch of days since the flames touched his meager face.

Mother/daughter save us with your grace. A gentle tick of forgiveness like the unnumbered  hours in this temporal place. We do what we can & then try again in this vacuum of humanness & deep void of space.

I’m salivating for vermouth like sand in my throat. There’s an app for that. Add to cart. Juniper berries and high tea. Click. Scroll. Oil of the rind. Transaction cleared, but I’m dying on the vine. I need dissociation. Scroll. Scroll. Too many apps to tap. Into a black hole. Stirred into the perfect dilution. Update my software. I need a golden ratio. Cross my heart and pay the fines. I am a fermented thing. Twisted onto the rim of the goblet of time.

Did I once lubricate the sun? I don’t know. But I milked the golden hour before the moon began to devour. Skin stretched thin & bones banging (around). The thrumming drum of a pulse. A flesh sack, flannel-wrapped. I am what remains of a cold sunset. My stretch marks reach to touch places once fuckable, now not. Bacteria bubbling my cheeks. Kiss the peaks & disguise the disgust. I am the cold side of the bed—uncomfortably numb. Amoeba black & skinny jeans in the trash. Concealed in soft matte. Becoming unseen will be my greatest & final act.

Collar my throat and pull until it chokes. Rip me into a smile & hairspray the grin. An aluminum can to lacquer the split ends. “Everything’s fine”, he says. For the love of god, call the guards when I’m carving the walls with my claws. Zip-tie my zealous thoughts and draw my blood. Tap the microphone and read the results. The infection sings like a loon bellowing. Soon I’ll be gone. & with your leash tightening, I scream: “Be wary, my children of the master. His ways are tricky and his fingers are alabaster.”

You wince. Wave your tears like a flag. Weeping for the hellfire perceived to lick me up. But let me tell you daddy-o…I’m a snack. Your nightmare of a son. A ****-*******, pearl-clutching heart attack.

The shape of me is still here.

The one you taught to bait a hook & reel in a catch. There are two worlds whose shoulders brush. A bobber in a still pond & a broken back. Frog legs in a bag, battered & fried. The other fathers cried. A ****** mess.

The shape of me is still here.

Mutilated, yes. Kissing the flame & wiping the wet from your eyes. Can you comprehend? Have you even tried?

******* this hint of musk. It papers my eyes in polaroids. Drags me by the hair into every dusty corner. ******* sweet from clover until I’m dried up. A clay man cracking in the oven. ******* the burning leaves. Pillow-puff wafts of smoke sneak in through cracked windows. Take my hand, lost boy. Let’s **** the umami autumn into our mouths. Come closer, let me lap it up from your lips while my fingernails tighten into your skull. ******* the summer sun. It boils my shoulders into blister-pop red. A layer of skin piling up on the nightstand after a day in the backwoods. The creek kissed the mud from my toes & exposed a leech…feeding. Later, I cried alone on the bathroom floor when I plucked it like a petal. ******* its pregnant body & everything stolen from me.

Screeeech goes the sound of the metal door sliding to a close in a house black as crows. An owl howling—juxtaposed with white earthenware pecked by rainbows. Happy Christmas from the trenches of bone meat and parsley. I’m legs crossed in a quiet corner screaming “cut!” because this strange stage play needs to be noosed. The compactor reeks of trauma pressed too neatly. Coats piled on the floor with salted mistletoe. A savory kiss from the host as she clack clack clacks her dentures. A hand not to be slapped, but severed—falling onto the feast table. A crack of pepper. The guests scream as apples tumble from the backyard tree. Quickly wheeled away to conceal all of the rotting. You see, the morning sun in Harmon insists on licking a clean lawn. But this boy is a dawn renegade with a fistful of fuel. And when I unearthed your heart, I set it aflame. Cranberries in my smile, while the black house burns.