CHURCH BLISTER

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