leave identification in the thing called home and blink long at the cartoon still living in its box where manifesto is menu, declaration is demo, as the zoetrope tightens slower, raise up a glass of petrol to the infernal stomach grumbling in every scene
always if there be food previously chewed is the rate of interest increased for day bartering invisibly, a data point here, a demographic aggregate there, who does this hair belong to? speak up in rithm and rime
alert a lot in A frame better than B side fade from popping memory but close to crashing C suite invitation carrying D list concerns to the glass decks after handshake making a physical suggestion the ground meet all Us early
lack mounts one syllable, a minor offensive on the tongue, rusty scissors cut a philodendron shoot, fist swaying in the breeze catching sunlight through cracks, years guaranteed to bring less or your money lack
I’ve never met a human / wait for more / there is none / all eyes on the wrung above / should there be movement of this species / it may come when there are no choices remaining / the quiet hiss of us reclining to feed the brush
stop the sign making a second cousin of that alphabetized horizon, long, sinewy arm reaching l’ objet when legs were speed rotating the earth, also a marble was the floor, sun and second eye
measuring the age requires a ruler as sharp as a shiv to cut wide collective knots where ease erases detail, live long elsewhere and one may outpace metered incisions, delivered precisely indirect on the minded stoop
to have a head in the galaxy means a neck to twist on as eyes lag light speeded swirl, breathless measure dancing all, popping our top off
charcoal and sky depend upon length of the second / long / it settles with luxury of appreciated colour / light angled above the flood plain / time to blend rather than spill / short / it makes an exhibit delayed of every organ / separate when never surveyed whole / zip the code tight
deafening fold rises from gopher holes, the small have shrunk themselves further, finding baby teeth of an argument at the throat’s back still strained by a pale, withered dug, pre-confederation