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my collections are here:
below are some recent poems, none of which can be found in said collections:
the phantom butcher hides another pregnancy test
an egg reminds me to bathe my teeth
death makes two beds
father and son give food a choice
mother mothers moth and math
for a cannibal
nowhere to go to have stillness removed
I think at night my bones are making glue
did my pain
not to a hymn of madhouse flies
[having a disabled child]
I don’t have hands and my eyes are trying to kiss.
for a landmine.
the stone’s wait-listed heart
a god with something to prove
the common telescope of a haunted cyclops
a round of leap frog
played in poverty’s
made to sing
the map my birth destroyed
the swallowing sound my father starved beside
coming he said from a stone
mourner at the tomb of insect
the demon shits a child in the dream of yours where it first appeared
the mother gets less and less attention for being born
the baby uncrosses its eyes
at a lone urinal, I lose hours to the handstand
of my city
proof a mosquito in the gravedigger’s ear
[nostrum] for Mary Ann
there are more dolls
remember, daughter, our jack-in-the-box
how it studied
pain is religious
hunger my contraceptive
someone to boil
afraid of its shadow in a previous life. the drowning of nothing’s
I went through a period of sticking things in my ear. not too far except this one time mom said it sounded human but also like all sound had lost its memory.
being poor is a myth.
a father was running circles around a baby.
sleep learns to eat quickly. an ice-cream truck
on the ocean.
it came over me like a face that maybe god was ugly
a.m., the half-life of a country ghost
our prayers go only so far
we say infant when two things at once warn a symbol
we call it bird
what was done
to the bird
we plate crows from black market microwaves
burn a wheelchair
I don’t know how to feel bad for people anymore. I’m 40 now but grew old near some woods that had in them a creature whose name came outta nowhere. it brought babies to those close to me to have them raised on stories of missing children and by the one movie we were allowed to watch. not since stone number three have I been a spitter.
I watched television for three hours then went outside for what seemed like three more.
I’ve been feeding the kid in different areas of the house.
falling asleep is forgetting to eat.
the naked mailman
he didn’t die
the church has begun to remember the world.
melancholy has its own mosquito.
yesterday, the kid wheeled himself in front of the fan and opened his mouth.
things burn where they land.
I wasn’t born but have to see for myself.
a tacklebox in a prison yard
the forgetful native
a collarless dog fetching a grounded kite
trauma’s original boredom
the search parties
wind and blood
at a therapy session
I am handcuffed
to my mother
a baby born with a wig
on these bikes these boys are beautiful
/ passing men under spell of god, the order
of the bent
/ I will not miss art
but ease, but hunger
a girl putting all her pain in a turtle
or in anything
from the hood
of her sister’s
/ a firecracker
by a bone
what a ghost knows about giving birth
a mechanical bull
father says there is nothing
to a jack-in-the-box
there is a word my mom makes
from a word
/ brings it all
the human dream
god’s attempt at a short story
/ the elephant
in its ruin
yeah, it rains here
/ tell your sister
imagine how long god must’ve been left alone to be named after the first person whose name he said. how hungry the mother to swallow hair. how bored her baby to remember. how small the television that spitballed hell. hidden the horse to keep its church. black the water to transport fish.
the black eye
to the moth-catcher’s
what a woman predicts
the plus side
if touch can end its own pregnancy
if it was
mom in the hospital is asking a half-lost boy if he knows about the band-aid keeping her skull together. the boy is afraid and I get that. her hands are confused or small or both. I give the boy a cigarette but yank it back when I see he’s been here before. could god maybe leave a thing untouched. behind us a mummy with one ear
is crawling with parents to a place.
a stuffed creature from god’s cage
sickness, the second person to forget my dream
the water here, brother, is flat. drinkable when it weeps.
what you hear is a mom moving her baby.
god / you can switch
like a bug
in a coffin.
I saw yesterday
I saw today something using its gums
to open a briefcase
and something else
by a father
/ scrapegoat /
by the time the robots believe in god, some of us want to be here. Misty keeps ripping her clothes off to make us think she’s cutting herself. I am not in love with her.
is a nightmare
Misty says making it hard is like pulling ticks from an owl. Misty says it is up to us to find the woman carrying the statue of her frozen brother.
a. act like a baby, not an indian
b. eat the way eating was born
in a lifeboat
after egg, her memory
the untouchable redness
the sunburnt scar on a fisherman’s arm
acolytes of the short leash, light
than god / think of me
as a hand
from a haunted
a stoned woman
man / nostalgia,
by the mother
to the man whose face can do things mine cannot, I give my son.
silence has no creator. pictures
I was a doorstep baby and brother a treehouse.
moon of the injured. moon of the blind.
the nude’s failure to stay awake in a laundromat. the suicide of the copycat toddler. nine types of catfish. a worm’s tongue. god’s last name. the orphan’s timekiller.
I am with my wife and son and we are drinking from the shell of a turtle a soup the locals use to dilute a rain’s grief. I kind of know that something bad is going to happen to both twins. my wife is looking for a wheelchair and then for a place to hide it. my son is saying grace in the only spot he’ll ever be. some of his white pills turn blue as a laugh track denies three times the thunder’s loss.
/ barn etiquette. a rabbit a volcano’s dove.
grief beds sorrow, sorrow’s