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/ poems, some older, some newer:
[I’m a different person when my son is sick]
ask a man what a rabbit hole means
/ everything I had was in that mirror
of a depressed
the dreamless baby of a kidnapped mime. a god whose mirror packs light. the hand-me-down
of the terribly
I slip with god into a movie about a crying baby
/ the museum
not much happened. after I was born, father stood outside of a church and watched mother go in. before I was born, they had eleven cigarettes between them and smoked maybe nine.
not much happened. my brothers joined me on a bike ride. we made visors of our hands and squinted into the sun. we looked for a hill. we stopped to watch a boy being pulled into a house by a spotted arm.
the loneliest thing I’ve done is buy a hammer.
by morning, the bite marks on my son’s arms have moved to his legs.
as for magic, there is none.
one must go everywhere in person.
are the sickness
are two sons
for a jesus
one heavenly, one earthly
the pain is not tremendous.
lo it has kept me
the infant is forever in the infancy of immediate hearsay
I was online / had a nosebleed
I was with your mother when she safely evacuated
instill in my sons
[the minimal class]
of an animal
he wants to know what he collects. he prays. he is blindfolded by the parent he rarely sees. he is taken on foot to an empty showroom only he can imagine. he is hugged. not asked, he goes into detail about his outfit. parent flips through a notebook. parent leaves to find a pencil. outside in a miniature snowstorm another parent throws an egg through the tail end of melancholy.
beauty is the beginning of beauty. a man and a woman wait together for a stripper. you know the man like an intimate thought. like a toddler covered head-to-toe in blue body paint stepping in front of a blue door. the woman is an unfinished stranger whose son comes home to be with war and whose husband rests until laziness subsides. the man is aware he’s the devil and this makes him god. the woman is unaware she’s the devil and this makes it easy. the stripper is watching a horror film and it makes her want to have a child. she decorates her home then tries to remember moving a muscle. the blood you don’t see is fake.
[his impressions of the experiment]
my closest frat brother looks at the toad and says frog motherfucker. tackles me. fact: there is a certain kind of toad that by staying still can kill a drug dog. in this country, a man can sell doves from the back of a white van. a man can run out of doves. my ghost is obsessed with caterpillars. it doesn’t matter what you say. they found that woman.
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
hunger my contraceptive
someone to boil
afraid of its shadow in a previous life. the drowning of nothing’s