The drive home is a rabies shot, agitated, you twitch from state line to county line to places in between, the coordinates slipstream daydreams — You remember the road numbers: 145th, 194th impossibly lengthy, made of pulverized bonemeal and crunch coat, those steel-cut graveled byways
You remember the inhabitants rendered from bacon fat and ham hock tourniquets and night shift salt licks Or those pubertied boys and their percussion kits behind the old band shell, blasting canonfire flams back there on Thursday nights, before the sweating, stinking performance
of pops classics, patriotica, the flags swatting the air, or was that the yellowed sheet music, free from clothespin bondage?
outside the world is screaming
for water. Life is bursting—flowers climactic, orgasm-
ic things, their petals dripping, gooey with plant blood.
the air is holding a cloth to my face
covered in atmosphere
it’s the end of all things,
the birth of all things.
my feet kick stones that are wetter than the grass,
slick with memory of forgotten riverbeds.
i have known the sorrow of these friends,
the gnawing behind the eyes that can’t be diagnosed.
i’m being torn in half like a split pine log
drowning sap, spineless lifeform.
high heat is labor incarnate.
the door opens and out I spill
afterbirth born from eyesockets torn,
rendered unconscious by warmth.
the end of all
the birth of all
picked apart by the vultures at dawn
the yardsale ladies size me up
with their price-guns and brooched breasts
the spine is a horrible thing to waste.
brave little toaster cries crumbs &
sidewalk lines like calendar kisses *&*
my brain is an intestine that can solve math problems.
Image credit: https://flic.kr/p/TcpJMW (licensed under Public Domain)