At the edge of wilderness: agriculture. Out back I’m happy with the smell of plumbs
and soiled texture. A rocking oil rig, phallic thumb sticking in dirt. Eve erything’s
impossibly green, except where black. Inside our ‘husband’ weeps and rocks
on his rotten feet.
Couch depth.
I pass the white plate, its neat helping, its help.
The family hog rolls in glue
As we sit in a circle
Dazed.
Getting older we ponder
Creamer, creamsicle, cremation
Hello Big Farmer,
I like your bottomless pot.
Our family is sexed, plethora of the gash. Together forever, we’ll slide through the past,
greasy at the rim, through the critical discourse that we use. Dear dead: What about
the vigor of the impersonal, that mansion without a suspect, is it comfortable?
"I don’t know what to do with the money." "Good thing there isn’t any." "She fell and
the tissue sheared red." "Oops, the end." "Witch of the hours of bleeding and rot."
"Her nail ghost widened the road, shaming a lot of pleasures from poetry."
A ghost escapes circumstances; that is what a ghost is.
Plot-scandal. The cartoons dangle.
The problem is always timing.
Issue #2
