Thursday, August 16, 2012


I either leave the miasma
a-flutter in my helmet
or I go down with the lamp's
network of grab dust, dropping

at times hazily –
but those little bones
mostly kiss linear
to avoid self-elimination

with a suture's squealing noise
riding freely back and forth on rails,
never turning or cross-hatching

despite my ambition, I was merely once the
anatomical grit's reversed, canned cell nebula,
that could be sprayed in various corners of rooms
as stick-on ooze –

the cluster-thumbs' produced waste:
the memories that formed darkly ahead of the waste,
falsely secure in relation to one another

my mom said she had gone to the prom in claymation sequences;
if she remembers correctly

my dad's exoskeleton kept tipping over all the time;
I believe that, I'm sure the memory is not false

they eventually found each
other in a heap of buzzing,
and then everything in the world
imbibed images, and shat images,
perfectly parallel to each other

such perfection cannot possibly be recalled,
even the blister they got in church at the wedding –
apparently, any swallow it did went along
guts skewed into a perfect parallelogram...

fuck, for all I know cattle in the Midwest
wore blood vessels as underwear, in labs electrodes
went black in monsters' budding wrinkles,
and all the gasses released here and there were prone to
caking, and those gasses that weren't thusly prone
deformed at relatively slight touch

I had already once
hacked the pavement in front of our house to cancel
pre-existing letters, had known care and love for the
letters I destroyed as a symptom, unavoidable and over-
powering, doing whatever it was this symptom did
without significant smearing

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