I am meant as a vessel, I am.
Causelessly, remotely, viewing.
Ceaselessly, borne against the past.
A caring man who is a caring woman—what do you care? If s/he portrays the fairytales bled into you in the beginning? Is that an odd sex or the passage of hero's legends—their education, their model of the world. And I stood—little girl—in the back of a crowd hearing wisdom from the only writer I ever saw speak live. And she answered all the questions wisely—said she thought her story was the story of children unsupervised—the neglect of the ancients—fetal pig served on the discount table—classics table—can you be the broad-reaching icon standing next to Greek ruins selling five-ninety-nine in the grocery section of the literature store? Can you do that for me? I am a shelver of books in 9th or 10th grade, working at the library and the only job I ever had before that was pulling weeds from an old man's sidewalk. In the library I focused on biology, anatomy, sexuality—sciences every child should hold in reverence. And I am the hole. And I am the upright mammalian force in the photographic hall—buried once in translation, twice in horrifique the matrons hold holy to maidens' hands thrice braided in a monkey nut.
Breathe the neighbor's gasoline.
He modifies the lawn.
And there I am in triplicate, certain procedures banned, naked in the moonlight of a full, yard spewed under starlit carcasses, moistened in the drops of the sprinkler apparatus.
A book on mantises, the Latin mantodea forever locked sun my brain. Terrible nightlight. Casting ruins. On my sky. Did you see my tunnel is a tunnel of light? The faces hidden on its surface? My thought is to tight in every toenail space that I writ it large on billboards all through the sleeping period. And. Featured. In the next. Hour. I. Own. A cardboard. Blanket. Set up like a tent. In the Serengeti Plain. Noxious. Of a zebra.
Free fall, I, dunced in the sky, cowardly, lions, followed, in their own gravitational wall, this, is, the end, my faithful friend, the end. And all the people are insane. On one side placed a garden of volcanic rock. The other is alligator skulls. Together they paint my walls a cloaking, identity theorem, backwards skeletons. You have captured me in a playbox—plenary wondergirl about when you catch the siren, when you pluck the feathers, when you feed the ducks.
And with slowness—knitting, loving—I make picnics on the carpet floor with all may babies around me spreading my fetus in semicircle for the locus of a P, B, and J. &. Smoking an iris some future Silicon Graphics logo matrimony towered syntactically between a young girl's hips—much like me.
There was a tree turned inside out and posted for a bargain on netly terminals drive the stock bankrupt—a posing for the financial stability of my toelace—brilliant for a forward mouse, killer the whale, ever so complex and mining for the core.
A silence dropping drop. Me in the core of the belly of the belly of the core. Inside, encoding for the universe, tinier than a tear, brogue-satient beings aerial stunting themselves and smashing 'gainst the side of a bridge, learning death in an instant, what is it like to know you're headed to the trusses with zero seconds to live? I am a bone. I am a dog. I am a dog's bone. Ten-dollar software lets me edit the womb—cut off all disabilities, diversions—I am kid viscous on a French Quarter tour everything I have seen on cable about the storytellers and the scams is what I drink from a two-foot cooler in my room.
My room—the fantastical birthing chamber of the ages.
My room—floor covered avec sweaters and leg warmers and raincoats. The trash peppered with baking soda and a spray nozzle.
My room—saddened surgery of an escalator dream.
I am the #1 video of crime on the web—tailored to expulsion about the neck and shoulders of an infant beast, organs and brain exposed in a makeshift surgery—the whole operation taking 60 seconds, seconds you wish you could retrieve, seconds you thought you had, locked, in spades, safe in the beef wallet, cowgirl spreading my ham and roast over beef envelopes calling to the cordon bleu Arby's-style sandwich to the fixated grave elementary particles of lust for awards showing now—on the popular channel.
I listen in my cup shell. For the mysteries forming on the inside.
Bleeped-out mouth movements not allowed to see, dog next door would bleep my pussy so hard into the dishwater, gates of tyrannical plot outline where I've been and where I'm going—that is the story we long to see. In dreams. In mountains tantamount to the catamount I have been up the spout/trail/fishmonger with which this all was formed, tragedy sewn into the inseams, blagueur weakly dominion fragments—priceless—and a ho dee ho.
So in the weakness of bleakness.
So of the tragedy of tragedy.
When comes the beast—the motherhood—elemental crackle descending like plague fruit in a torrent beside which the dirt devil cannot compete—a softly moving piano, sound—that there emotion—that there rolled in cinnamon and dust—the beatitudes middle-chomping a subhuman PAC-MAN on my breast/plate, the girl in the shopping window that I thought was me—a brilliant example of the time but all she was was a girl in plastic dress invecting dynamite pussy juice (sperm) into the hoo-haa hole I am spitfire taking culture up the spout—an injection learning wherein the applicator goes up inside flaunts a subprime mortgage random discipline of cumming on the napkin between my legs in the middle of the night.