after we roll the dead dog from its towel and into god’s mouth
for its tooth
satan’s kid continues to play chicken with a farm machine
in a slow
in the barn
would eat snow
if it came
from a cow.
I ask him
does he think
mom will miss
she’ll miss one, she’ll miss yours.
I am half his keeper.
in the mind
is frozen, where god
when dressing the disabled child in front of family
the fireplace is on drugs. get the good rope and tie it around the wrist of the hand I want dead.
on a drive I’ve undertaken to see my brother, it comes to me that odd things were being sold. jesus-on-a-stick. the crown of thorns, extra. I close my eyes. I dare the brain. the brain says it’s off to be forgiven.
brother has one ugly foot and one beautiful. I have this disorder causes me to fully remember dreams*
everything happened in 1985. words don’t mean. numbers mean. tell your gay father he has nothing to do with himself.
the wind is asleep. it sleeps outside.
as acne commits my face to a memory of scripture, god worries that man’s silence is a pox upon both the crow and the crow. on good authority, the cyclops is blind in one eye. you were tortured, yes, but nothing stands out. my living hand performs for my dying. imagine my father’s dismay at the realization yours had of having done this autopsy before.
as he prepared to leave my world to the memory of a man addicted to god, my father was stung by a bee. this matters. bees carried the scent of absence. bees spoke to mother. mother was the woman it took two like my father to make. mother swallowed to bruise the body of any dropped thing sounding itself out in a nightmare had by children new to infancy. mother swallowed and called it singing. there will be a god. this matters. perfect, now, the nothing you say.