down to gristle
where meat attaches
to bone—leaves hollow
having pushed the world away, we call it back through language
thy sternum tight like a cage
W., R. & T. drop acid and go to a
bar inside a grocery store
I absorb this information neutrally
move toward the scary
into the crowd escaping. We were first in line to escape. We were trying to fit inside coolers or buckets, get lifted out.
show us a video
try to prepare us
(we are teachers)
to respond first.
I know I must not be the only
Saw it coming and didn’t say anything—why?
You should always strive to emit positive vibrations to others, earth, and self.
in our bed
and I think he is those things
last living form
(Hard to write a poem and let it fail)
What kind of life to not be engaged with desire up to the very end. Isn’t that what dying is—to no longer be in proximity to want?
I wrote, trees and non-binary (it was a typo)
& source of positive vibration.
hear flower say no
accept and do not pick it
bringing back the dead
First it was the leg bone. Then dark wet owl pellets, fur and bone, tiny skull with bone so fragile it flaked into bone ... dust—bone, soaked
in bleach, bone on the back porch, bone of water, bone of light, good boy bone, bone I asked permission for, may I always be ready to
hear no: I offer bone as offering, I shake bone around to anyone good who may be listening.
What’s mine is yours even if it’s only bone dust.
We live openhearted and without fear.
In the triple-X fantasies,
I’m the puppy. I bring back the dead
a sign of—what?
Surrender? Having, out in the wilderness,
thought of you?
proximate sanctuary, string antidotes together like beads.
cat piss—rancher—rearview spider—wasp nest
dead dad blanket for the coldest nights—mountain pass—
antelope—taking a shit under a rainbow in a field of ponies, in Oregon (how that actually happened)
I know your secret
I too have dropped entire days into my thigh
Nights and galaxies, termites of testosterone week after
week slow as money even slower when it crystallizes. I think you are
beautiful in me
small shocks I did not know I’d bottom for,
which is not a secret. Sometimes I imagine shapes behind
my head pouring me into wood chips: me alive, me proximate
to want, useful as a body for some animal part unashamed by its own rage.
Why your pouch fit my jaw like that, why you only smell like that after lightning?
Way it sometimes hurts how bad—desire to be bred.
I close a motionless fist, forget to call you by your other name—
small pink flag waving in the wind.