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