Vice is in— advice. Inside thread is— tread, and red. Also, dear—
A mind made of drills, a tentacle audience, personal scarlet, potions of temporality
Do you squint as she approaches, toward large glass walls, carrying needle and broom, carrying music tied soundly to lack?
Will you revolve acres on paper, paste onto envelopes? Invite beams of light to kneel?
Have you ever written instructions to yourself, bereft of apprentices?
Do you remember how to singe fine power, how to turn twinge— to dawn?
How to rise up and twist threads together until they learn to cling— until— like letters you find your strand
A narrative of the short-sleeper contains a swinging bed, at least one ghost pillow, loons and wind through fir. The weight of one-hundred blankets covers eyes. To reunite the bereft with sleep— goggles inset with blue light, sleep fairs, banquets and pantomimes. How to make a bed. How to speak to your internal alarm. How to address sleep theaters. Sleep as weapon. Start by turning off the light and saying your prayers. Taking off the custom of cloth and replacing it with flight. Cover your body with moths. I don’t know where this is leading.
A Dress is Never Sex
Going to get the mail at 5028 sort of but no gate a dirt road and slightly pastoral
and saw across the street an envelope slightly buried in dirt.
I brushed it off and saw it was a letter to me And continued brushing off dirt with
my cold hands become something else determined, cold, red
sifters with their own intent to find an entire stack of letters buried in the dirt
across the road.
A letter from you one that said everything you had not said in our last
incarnation and letters with foreign script hands I did not recognize
but half remembered a promise with a seamed back is how we knew
she may have seemed alive but couldn’t possibly have been
But not the letter from you which wasn’t anywhere didn’t exist except as
something buried bluntly seamed unopened so what did it matter?
And how had these letters gotten across the street?
The mailman apparently had placed letters on the ground instead of in the other pretend
metal box It had been windy I discussed this with others having similar problems
Mail was decomposing as an absent anachronistic sacrament
Since your letters had stopped I started ordering things to arrive in the mail
to mollify my disappointment I was ashamed but still looked
forward to parcels mostly books of momentum lossless dresses
also vacation and trees
I ordered some trees which never came but a fox arrived And reams of edible
paper When I ordered the ancient shoes I had seen in a museum case
I knew I had gone too far Still I kept the shoes a museum
a case of unkempt myself in glass velvet with
The Last Time I Wore That Subject You Were Alive
I didn’t want to stop I never wanted to stop and if I read the words you wrote
when you never wanted to stop then you’d written “you’d” when I should have written
“eye” or, ore never wanted to stop what was written was a written form, an
orientation until the gaze runs out so that you can’t watch
a video of interactions your gaze is that painfully present it’s so obvious that
nobody sees it
But if you ever want to write again from that period of false purity you’d better get
Why if it is falseness so many ways to cover a body alluring the dark sentences
is nothing really I can do it even without any words