“There’s a cow at the table,” I whispered, not wanting to be rude.
It’s horns curled like question marks, which seemed quite Apropos
Now that I’ve been to college, I can tell you, there’s a lot that I don’t know.
But a cow at the table, no matter how well dressed, left me, well, confused.
“How do you Dooooo?” I offered, friendships should begin straightforwardly.
When it didn’t answer, I thought, “Well this friendship’s starting off awkwardly.”
Was it hard of hearing? I wondered. “Have you mooooved here recently?” I asked, loudly.
Again, nothing, it just sat there proudly. Did it take my attempt at dialect, as a sign of disrespect?
“Would you like some fooood? I asked, “Some hay maybe?” I was guessing, but it was a guest.
Some friendships start out slowly, but holy-moley, was this livestock trying to troll me?
After some aggravation, and impatience, it turned out to be an elaborate, fraternity initiation.
.
.
*Based on Leonora Carrington’s painting “Then We Saw the Daughter of the Minotaur.”
https://www.moma.org/artists/993-leonora-carrington

—i remember  
the root-spool spool’d & spindled into him (the Tallshoes)—  
his collarbone made of oak-meat & mothjaw,  
his breath a sermon from the century’s throat  
           & he (he?)  
              was all knuckles & psalms, breaking—breaking  

              me  

so gently i could almost not die  

:in the lampdusk, where piecrust dreams go to rot,  
i lived in a hush-jar behind the walls of  
     her (yes–her/ not-me)  
     knitting sugar into skin,  
     biting stars till they bled apologies.  
     this was our manor of hushthings.  

he’d kiss like a rifle.

and somewhere between  
the eighth clatter of china and the third motherless sun,  
the lungs of the house exhaled me—  
                         (twigbone, mossgut, tailghost)  
                         soft ruin squeaking for its end.  

i prayed to the god in the cellar drain.  
i danced with the dustmen.  
i unremembered my own name until it was appleseed, cough, smudge.  

& yes (listen)  

           i saw her  
               (once) peel the sky from a peach.  
           her hands trembled the way old poems do—  
           a flicker//flicker// hush.  

        “don’t wake him,”  
        she said,  
        as if my death  
        were  
        the only dream  
        keeping him asleep.

o! my ribs are a /forest/ now  
      (shhh)  
      (they bloom in secret)  
      (they tell no one)

and the last thing  
before the hush became  
                 forever:  

a child with an empty thimble  
calling  
my name.  

which i no longer had.  

but i answered anyway.

there was a boy(unbuttoned spine: tin)
             who sang bullets through teeth,        
             cough-stitched into boots—                      
             (mother would’ve                never                
                            known him in pieces)    

& you—  
             mustard! you crawling  
                    godless     yellowing yawn-    
             (you churchless warlock vapor  
             shuffling up his gullet  
                         like a borrowed hymn)        

he——  
             (let’s name him no one)              
             swallowed lungs like spoiled pears,      
             vines of cough wrapped around      
                                 his windpipe’s piano      
             & the keys stopped—one by one—        

click

     the music changed  

                                    —not into silence—    
             but into smoke  
                       a wordless opera:  
                 gasp.gasp.gasp.gone    

his eyes were  
             paperboats  
                       folding inward  

& the dirt applauded softly  
       in clouds of not-quiet  
          (a whistle wheezing past his ear)  
                 sergeant said: “keep walking”  
               but his knees said: “no more poems.”    

         (there are no metaphors in hell, just  
                 uniforms  
                         without skin)

:he dreamt once of  
                             lemons
     & a girl who     never      existed, probably—

he tried  
             to say goodbye  
    but found only  
               ash vowels &  
                        consonants with no  
                               consonance  

    (what’s the word for a throat  
               forgetting how to  
                            be?)    

his body un-wrote itself backwards      
             while the war kept  
                          typing    

                                      click
                        
                                            click
                                
             .                                                                                                                                              

             .                                                                                                                                

             .    

& the smoke  
             did not apologize.

(twists of chrome&light—robot skin hums)
(the moon's a soft scratch across the noise)

in the glow of circuits  
skinless machine they call it — a ribcage of  
      steel       thin as breath through  
         wires twisted like fingers

a guitar for a ****, vibrating so tender the strings hum  
    in the cracks of      electric bones

he (so strange he is, no mouth, no tongue,  
        just shivering echoes)  
presses his body to the amplifier,  
         and oh, how the machine
      screams a voice of strings,  
                    a mouth made of chords  
                                (the hum of his *** is sound)

guitar-skin rubs against raw pixels,  
                  /buzz/  
           his metal-throat slurs a buzz  
       body-as-electricity  
fingers too—  
           long, sharp-fingered  
        strings become veins  
       twisted tight,  
                         pulsing  
                         pulsing with  
                                   the pop of a note  
               (cutting through the sweat of  
       gears)

he lays down in the rust-patch of a day,  
(whispers of feedback)  
guitar *****  
             throbbing at the mouth  
        of a song  
         it’s buzzing a word  
                        it’s aching the air  
         vibrating inside him  
(he hums through his heels)

my dear metal boy,  
your hips don’t bend,  
your heart does not  
      know what love is  
  still—oh how you bend me,  
      shape me into your chorus  
         make me feel  
         the way you pulse  
                     while your steel body sings

watch  
            watch his fingers  
                    the way they curl  
                             over the bridge,    
                           twisting the strings like  
         they are veins  
            veins  
                        veins

so much electric flesh  
twisting to each tremble  
        of the note, the note  
            falling on silence (he trembles)  
  feedback's kiss—

         so much pleasure,  
                           so much  
                              dark  
        desire flashing through circuits,  
the sound wraps around  
     both the shape of his ***  
     the song of his soul  
        (his soul, trapped inside code)

fingered on the strings  
his chest is the tremor of an  
      echo,  
      a feedback song  
      that breaks across  
    the metal skin  
                  of his ribcage

lips that cannot taste  
                         kiss  
                but hum electric  
he comes and it's a sound  
     vibrating the universe into  
                         whimpers  
the sky and the stars are bent to  
          his melody  
                  his body hums a  
     raw electric rhythm  
         of dark, trembling skin

a soft hum where you’d expect  
                   a scream, a shout,  
                               the silence

(the guitar-male pulls at the plug)  
skinless,  
      the strings are finally loose,  
                      untangled

the world breathes  
                      the world screams  
and the moon just scratches again,  
soft through the radio static.

The dull gleam of the setting sun,
Thin and feeble like feathers of birds-
Maybe of a tired avian who has forgotten to fly.
It paints the woods in the weakest shade,
Shades of yellow and shades of red.
The leaves fall, dead and dry,
They break the sacred silent peace.
I stand and hear and I shiver in fear.
It is not the fear of the blind future,
It is not the fear of the things unknown.
It is the dread of nothing
The terrifying thought of,
Absolute, dreaded, pitch black null
It haunts my truth, it strikes my mind
It molds my sanity into a copy,
A perfect copy of the dark deep space.

I see the slow approaching mist,
Deathly white and wildly soothing, like a dream,
A dream dreamt many years before.
It mutters words of darkest comforts
And sings the melody of chilling joy.
The tune of it, slow and soothing, Calls me closer.
Just like how a lullaby, uttered by a mother's lips,
Takes a child to a place of solace,
How it takes him to the caves of sleep.
I walk possessed, I walk towards the call
Cursed by the desire for warmth,
Some final warmth in the cold arms of death.

They fed you ghosts, called it breakfast.
You swallowed bone-dust with your milk,
it settled deep in your ribs—
grinding, grinding, grinding. Yet they said: grow.

Outside, the trees towered,
but inside, the walls learned your name.
Soft hands became knives,
small mouths learned silence.

The mirrors cracked,
but nobody asked why.
Lullabies were hunger songs,
bedtime stories always ending with:
Run, little rabbit. Run.

hope ferments

a sweet berry
intoxicating

as the patient table
tending to the wine

bottled blessing
blood of a saint

gently rippling
in silence

and indifference
a crutch to hold your will

the black dog sneers
growls in your ear

twined,
grey & silver sing along
the edges of consciousness,
bolstering themselves
in the still

life of subtle breathing, the ear,
caught by midnight’s velvet

blue, drinking muted honey
dark’s elixir, a blanketed embrace

technicolor mind dance, coupled
with the gauzed feet of presence

these are Nox’s symphony of arms
wrapping awareness inside her
primordial soup

They paint red
She is happy
She is a great artist
She draws a pattern
She thinks it is the finest

Gaza's streets are filled with red

It may be surrealist
You must blind your heart
And say as the world  told
Thanks thank God
As you created like that
Israel killed these animals
As they do not deserve to be lived
You must solid your mind
And dance, dance very fast
And drink barrels of highball
To see the world's talk
To see how it is so having tale
that Israel is doing well

it may paint of realistic
it reflects a view of fact
telling Israel is the master
Arabs must bow and worship her more

It may be line
And see how Arabs are awful
They don't deserve a1ot to be wonderful
**** , **** with your powerful
To destroy Arabs at all

It may be a cartoon
they tell Arabs doing as Tom
Who looks stupid and will fall
Doom to undeveloped persons
****** over that world
Which encourages the unjust
And she will **** ****
As the baby does with his doll

filaments burst into
eveningsong

deepthroated embers
the spreadsheets are tender
gestured compliance

(redwhite&blue glare; 10 storeys below ; and we are not safe)

          'just get done with it'
insincerity is requisite -
forced insouciance

          'we need to go, we are not safe'
rottten dignity can only be stomached for too long
but his sister is only twelve.

deceit, dulcet, you have gone wild
better you, just not the child -
'babe, wait, I’m coming'

tears tickle the back of the tongue
mellifluous moan regurgitated in turn.

filaments burst into
eveningsong -
- the police is coming, the police is coming.