“And how are you doing?” I want to say that I am not doing. I want
to say that I am existing; instead, I just exist. Like things just happen.
I exist the way you remember to breathe – out of habit.
It is all for the kiln - the gown as discreetly
and secretly brought every night in her bed
and wore her down—burnt.
Art alone
compensates. Statues
of bearded psychotic warriors, not even legend.
“Devon, I have a confession.”
“I was hoping you did. I’m a bit confused this morning.”
“You see, that wasn’t me in your bed last night."
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He killed Abel
because it seemed
the only answer
to all that went unquestioned.
She stares up at the structure basking in the morning light, and wills herself into a state of mind in which the house can be like a god, and then gets comfortable against the cool, damp grass, the hard fence behind her, an insect of some sort tickling her left wrist as it investigates her presence.
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so many interchangeable letters collapsed in the machine of subversion and normative praxis. i am the blade and blood exuding from her pleasure wound.
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The grass in the yard was thick and scratched my ankles
and in summer it was too hot even under the palm trees
but back inside Tom Selleck is young again, gliding across
the screen, and you are in the kitchen, and I wish it would never end.