WHAT ARE. wire bent. pipe eyes see pits, glitter
he has a thrum cyst. we’ll take him in for
reddening.
is a wire capped over little legs. his nipples spread and flatten and disappear. whole circles
form and deepen like a sore tooth.
frayed wires around each, small wire, razor, his nerves aren’t nerves.
all the experiments on pits.
all things dropped into him.
wire bent around each tooth and pulled into the reddening. he glitter gone and eyed like
DAVE WHAT ARE. tubes whir and drip circles on his needled. cut cubes.
pits in the frayed patternspace. pits in the magnet machine. WHAT ARE PITS.
(April 30×30: 9/30)
the bus driver with his blossoming pimples drives the bus.
this is what Pits remembers, he really remembers rose and apples.
the bus is a sound orchard to Pits.
chain links
security guns
windscreen insects, splattergories. Pits tries really tries not to laugh. but the windows
light like tinder in the sun from over the hill
in the belly of the hill, Pits first sees the Facility.
(April 30×30: 8/30)
Quaildrop spent her egg time growing, growing. She likes the city best when it is dusty,
when it does. Weeding, looming the long loom. Drop walked through a cloud of black and red beetles. Walked into a branch that had them, and the grass was California. She was back in California. And for waymarks maybe, an aching back. She makes oak horn flour in a stainless sink through cheesecloth. Quaildrop spent her dough time splitting. She got catnipped in a yeast fist. She cooks the best onions in the state, best rabbit, best liver, cries when I do, at Christmas when spilling the nicest wine.
(April 30×30: 7/30)
I am tired of talking about this.
Did she want to sleep with me? Yes.
She wanted you to come
in spurts like bad poetry.
I blacked out in the bathroom of a Taco Bell.
Stop telling people. Stop spreading it around.
You hollow garbage. Eat in your room
from the hidden store of rain. Your face will never feel smooth to anyone.
In the evening around six o’clock my cat jumped on my chest.
Seriously I am tired of talking about this.
(April 30×30: 6/30)
neoprene skin cranes
the 660 man weaves, heaves, muffles
chips back down the hull
racked ice and steel.
breaker tall men throw ice their hammers and hands
cracked into the breaks. crave.
I am only a man in a rack, without strings,
boards flipping and hooks swing the castings stable.
in the months I rode the crane for them, pumped their hydraulics,
heroes know nothing
the throaty rancy singing. impact
taught me all I need to know.
(Arril 30×30: 5/30)
Does he have a head under his helmet, or snakes
or rags or fungus?
coiled, black, or lick-damp paper in tiny? It hurts it.
He looks sad and bedroomed. Dry lipstick; that is exactly
wine soured in a mouth. The lightning
there is actual lightning outside, shelled purple.
What’s under the butcher apron? Small teeth?
(April 30×30: 4/30)