And then waves of blackbirds rise from the bed. You,
who love so much to be martyred: red yarns fill you
with an accidental narrative, one in which you get out
of bed, force a face on your thoughts, saw through
jules of calendar-warped spaghetti; all the while
wanting you to watch me, watch my cry, shimmer like
smoke. By that time she was noticing the color of the
wind. It smears across my dead stepfather's mouth as
he never kisses me goodnight; mother's not allowed to
either, your maggot tongue beating in the rain like an
opened road kill, wet dog strewn across wet squirrel
across wet rabbit, bunny rabbit: the pavement drools a
honey sulphur rush. Will I blush to think of you,
years after the networks unravel, no hard critic to
unknot the nothing chains, no star-spattered art in
your hands anymore, but grasping the root, saplings
bent to this shade of wind? What hue will water talk?
Teal is one likely candidate, a diluting of black.
No-one's paying attention now, so you can loosen your
cells in long trails through the lake. I fell down
trying to follow you, slim Virginian with a
belt-buckle shaped like a globe; you were too right
and too natural for my footprints to bury you. A hard
critic moans into duct tape and pillows, something
dead about expression that twists into all the shapes
we love: especially the food, which has spoiled now
because I kissed it with lips refuting their own
composition. Some say her plane never left that
holding pattern over snowy Cleveland. Even so, the
balance of cryptic green on layers serrated by her
mouth enveloping these tinny deaths online keeps
circling over my inert distributions; restless, I
comb through the hex and octal strands, prefixing
curls with a truth-table half submerged in a barbarity
of bright ideas: turn the light on, dear, turn the
light on me so you can see me crawl over the floor,
dead stepfather in straight-jacket mouth, deader
father watered with yarns of silver ivy! Am I not
beautiful, refusing to hold form?
What did you dream about, under the lake where cats
equal their shadows?
I dream of car crashes, and snakes that blur with
flippant scales.
Hold me! You could cave in and let me enter you: let
me fill you up: give me a face!
=====
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Dirty Milk("...under the lake where cats equal their shadows...")
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