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handled air (pressure)
in zack’s poem, he says days without healing i imagine a wound meant never to close like a wave ringing a milk glass bell a weepy voicemail through the drywall a finger on the psycho killer button some people see space and feel cold or they see themselves inside of that grand drape, feet sticking out the bottom: maybe everything is pretension: a water balloon end for a belly button: a body as a whole stucco house: a lifelong double-dare: craft an obsession: my dear husbands in the nude, tangled in strips of paper like cash stuck to calf meat an instant: the paper turns highlighter orange nylon and the tension snaps hornier than it might’ve before. are you ever the passenger in a big truck? fully turned to esplanade under a hottie? felt the sun on your skin and felt dog-eared when it’s gone? go to the grocery store see the bounty of it and feel scared and want to take everything home and keep it safe? *ominous voice* erotic wig... romantic wig... a ghost of le labo hanging around my neck slims to fit a single palm the bed folds us up like two lozenges lozenge is really the name for the shape / i am truly obsessed with how i can see for miles after acupuncture healthy posture feels natural and rewarding for weeks my first job was at a haunted house where state road 436 turned to altamonte drive some invisible butcher curtain in the intersection some ultra-fine establisher some staticky Dead Hand signal re: caste... anyway a woman brought her own snake from home and i dressed in all black pushing my creepy hands through a four-way stretch. my job title: nightmare / i am passed into your hands like a football, like a champagne neck on a saber mercury rolling in lines in a palm i could shed my human skin and you would pick it up like it wasn’t disgusting, like it was wrapped in paper, and ask me where i want for you to put it |
