All angles: the poison wound. the giving dagger. the dullest poison. the shove with a smile. chuckling
hemlock. cards in the face, waving. closed-door meetings. requests to all angles / keeping up on all
angles. all corners filled. no space but for the corridor nod. the cube powwow. funnels from a
snakebite to the sucking air. I defy the trust of men who trust my charade. even I trust this
charade now. the wound suck. belts tighten around arms in a cave of machines. so many
fronts. the beach at Normandy. children dying point A to B. their fear concrete and
absolute. mine diffuse and melting, built up, cooked then uncooked. how dare
I compare myself to them. on that beach is where they mattered. I have Big
Plans for you, son. the king of a dark office. hammer the bronze crown
flat and hide it. not just anywhere. probably not on the beach at
dawn on a Tuesday. all angles. sticks through my bubble.
from all sides. the slow insistent stigmata. you’re Jesus
now? you don’t believe. the pink card shaking under
my eyes: I am deaf please any amount helps God
Bless You. He’s everywhere. my mailbox taller
and wider. attachments. a Mission Motive.
product. hours. time tearing its teeth
through a late chirping morning. a
sunset. did it swallow? I need
painkillers. I need
food
e
m
pty
your
head
of all but
mind. wrestle
the workaday. speed the
poison to its goal, let it live there.
air. give it air, repeat yourself. give it back
inside. give it time, go back if it helps. go nowhere. beg.
don’t go in. stay outside. leave early. your shoes click in a marble
atrium. from the neck up, from outside a waterfall, outside the page,
outside the skull membrane, arms wait to hold you. an open net embrace over a cool
pad made of redwood dust. the sound of the poison evaporating. you marvel at its impotence.
hemlock. cards in the face, waving. closed-door meetings. requests to all angles / keeping up on all
angles. all corners filled. no space but for the corridor nod. the cube powwow. funnels from a
snakebite to the sucking air. I defy the trust of men who trust my charade. even I trust this
charade now. the wound suck. belts tighten around arms in a cave of machines. so many
fronts. the beach at Normandy. children dying point A to B. their fear concrete and
absolute. mine diffuse and melting, built up, cooked then uncooked. how dare
I compare myself to them. on that beach is where they mattered. I have Big
Plans for you, son. the king of a dark office. hammer the bronze crown
flat and hide it. not just anywhere. probably not on the beach at
dawn on a Tuesday. all angles. sticks through my bubble.
from all sides. the slow insistent stigmata. you’re Jesus
now? you don’t believe. the pink card shaking under
my eyes: I am deaf please any amount helps God
Bless You. He’s everywhere. my mailbox taller
and wider. attachments. a Mission Motive.
product. hours. time tearing its teeth
through a late chirping morning. a
sunset. did it swallow? I need
painkillers. I need
food
e
m
pty
your
head
of all but
mind. wrestle
the workaday. speed the
poison to its goal, let it live there.
air. give it air, repeat yourself. give it back
inside. give it time, go back if it helps. go nowhere. beg.
don’t go in. stay outside. leave early. your shoes click in a marble
atrium. from the neck up, from outside a waterfall, outside the page,
outside the skull membrane, arms wait to hold you. an open net embrace over a cool
pad made of redwood dust. the sound of the poison evaporating. you marvel at its impotence.
