A host of light is a bright thing. If you look before the walls come up, what you seem in metal to make or shift – one power source isn’t all that gatherable. There’s another word for this and I’m leaning into the glass before the light gets shuttered. Oil remains. An everying. As in all treatments, lasted and classic. Take hair fashion, or the 16 on center stud. One mustn’t let the regulations diminish to mush. There’s an etched and erased choice ghosting the center beam. I put my fingers into every socket from eye to outlet I encounter. A hat less thanks its shock and getting. Which meanness in the cut wood replaces itself with standing metal – nothing hammerable at all in this. Just gypsum to catch with wires. Watch.
Retreating hammers, the wood placemat. Are in other words a weather crime.
Seen from above, the fallen tree looks something like a relative – in green and yellow
similar to what the uniform of a hometown might suggest – say rams or hornets nest.
The police were agents of the street. They had their pepper spray and other weapons
ready for whatever element might come barreling. Lines of chalk sought their broken
Edges. This while waiting for the bus or heat to finally arrive. There was nothing
to suggest foul play. All the perpetrators wore new linens, were ready to swear
The fallen tree into a table-shape and sit quietly fingering their now cool soup.
It had previously been unseemly.
For the piecing of parts together, we can play
count the eyes – three, and when the fourth becomes
visible, and not an impenetrable wall of I’ll-lick-your-
hair, or this surface in its smoothness is nothing
like the moon, we will build a bridge together of tap
Look how the cards glow, and the adoration
tossed upward before the beat begins. Melanie
might be questioning the decision to lead with an off-
suit seven, but Kuro don’t mind. He’s all like,
let me touch those locks. I know the fish in the aquarium
are just snack sized, but they’re tasty, too.
Like the even space between two things to look out from + a series of bored holes in the struck language we put up to our faces, such are the mean and intentional swearings we cast as prayer, cast as pull, hook as lip, bill as spell. If you punish your name enough it will grow. The box is never quite small enough to take thought and sound out from its interior. I watch the blade-light wood grow its sayings and from below the woman on the ladder looks like an extension corded to the plug of her brush – double-handed and drawing the pale shapes down into something she’ll pronounce with hushes pressed between. No exotic flower on the tongue, just the fret of age and wearing a name not hers outward skinned like this.
The antswarm round your neck up like it was some
collection of tiny field animals and the break
of the building’s corner the pen
to keep them stored. If we’re to believe the lips and neon
a body makes backcropped onto street and scene.
Onto building and hair care procession. Here’s the red of the root and the pale
buff of wet concrete – we will be seated in a flurry of scissorwork –
the brush pull and snap. What rope lines
an ear of corn, what silk pulled taut along the jawline
to draw angles from a face – whoever painted this building
makes dual-headedness feel chic. I trust
the blood that courses just below the scalp runs just the same
temperature as the hot oil treatment – and to look two ways at once
you could just slit your face down the front
and peel it back – eyes stacked on top of eyes on top
of engine-run-red in black and white.
When the waters made their god, they pressed the colors up into rows like a sky/ They talked in collective violence, shined their parts against piping, lost the flute noises among the other noises they had yet to find names for along the edges of the land. When the gods groaned into life it was like there was this reflection of a wheel burning. A rubber tire, hole right in the center of its fire and through that came the clownfish, or the roar of salmon. No one pressed the valves into shapes they couldn’t drink from – there was abundance and there was the spoke of life-like light smearing itself on all glassy surfaces. Now we are in the belly of worship. Now we are confined to metal licking and the lift of organ song – a name for drinking has been pasteurized and vaulted. The fire cones along the ceiling looking for a head to streak with tongues. We sip our wort until the season calls it finished. Blue like the ridden ghost along a ceiling. The framing glow. Arches for the light to linger down. And in the center of our visions the copper weights, the waters process bared and barely free.
The words say they stick
to the window and the ground and the curb gets flattened
next to the line I’m walking away. I just plumb
outgrew the chair – got up from it and on and on. You see
the building’s number, to call & make the buy. What
childlike things we set out to watch the streets.
My homunculus not a dream-wary one, but really set about
with paint and brush, with making the wood seal up
to wear better in this weather. What I can’t say
is the brick along the back – to throw it, make your fist into a camper,
make it light, draw it along the sealing lines.
Make the hand stand still a while – let the birds drop
their songs and white paint along the cardoor, and don’t step hard
if you can help yourself – don’t step arched along the cracks.
Take the brick and fold it into a film set. We can carry whatever
we want in these bags. Let’s lift now our friends up from this chair
and dance them around before we stall and set it flat down.
A brushman crosses himself in church, the little dreams of dolls dead-eyed
in the antique shops – how they crushed up all the make up
and build a mirror for the world to start its staring into.