ghosts
fabulous myself
with glittersugar and feathers torn
from crow bellies that ate
my ancestors with steak
sauce but they weren’t steaks
no sir
they were an edengarden of fruit
trees where every pomegranate cried
itself to sleep
the thing inside me cannot stay
its size exceeds minimum specifications to run this application
jetpack backpacking across north
west using ill-gotten capital gains
texas sky covered in oiling green peas
baby food for jesus
likes his steak well done his people undercooked
that’s why i’m not real
ity tv is where i’ll be buried inside
the box my flat screen came
packed gumlimbs in foam to fit without
the fight left in me i say no
thank you
slough off the ring finger
nail pullers were torture devices used by mars
transforming venus into chocolate bars for a jailcell
holding fire spitters who eat their match
books whole no swallowing
but surgery to implant
in their stomachs and the reverse
when all matches burnout from life
in prison without the possibility of
jelly roll of belly grown from custard
smells like damp pillow
my face is a ravine cavepainted
with tarantulas screeching teeth
brushing noises noisy tutorial on how to
reinvent wheelchairs so spiders without legs can screech too
many inside jokes having nothing to do with anything
relatable to the average man i’m not so why
“Would you say nothing matters in the end?”
of the show because it all starts over again
on the next episode of mania
where do we go when we
dye our scarves the color of an earthworm
baked in the sun crystalline
mezzanine with a bomb the size of houston holy
hell that’s a lot of megapixels captured
below sea level bodies
float the undrinking water is still
undrinkable saltswill you need
to filter and nineteen hundred buoycorpses
everyone’s unhappy with their ancestors
resting in cisterns
skies cataracted with airplanes
constellations of staircases that a man lacking pilot’s
license climbs every night to say good
bye to his everdying wife who’ll be dead
by suncome and again the next evening over
counting the total population of heaven no one
signs her death certificates because
the only other person is her husband
who’s a polygamist
believing in an all-knowing
agency with the capability to en
force itself on you through nanoscopic
particles of ex-people who made it through
the water purification for severechronic stupidness
piñata boatbreak against iceberg in brain
waves—the kind that happen right before you fall
down
the
stairs
grandma used to call tomato veins in for supper
the sweet potato a heart
and the entire garden a man who she’d make love to
had it been less beautiful
Posted Aug 27, 2018, 4:05 AM UTC · edited
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