i. the procession of archetypes

The dogs can eat you alive,
the moment you set the bread down in the kitchen.

We are waiting.
We are watching.
We are talking. We know.

Fever strikes us and the tumbler rolls under, she's looking for food,
nudges your tied hands.

YOU DON'T KNOW the bridgeless water fountains
That scream HAIKU in the firecracker windows. Smell smoke? There's a world of fire.

I make my collapse seem so effortless. My pinkies lift.

Though it was your angles that brought me. Radiator.
Radiant brown recluse up my crooked spine, I keep forgetting. To lock the door.
Will you do as you, or as walk the line? Played that game before,
You still tweak on her echoes, defying debt and the constructions you resist.
I know your heartbeat. I can see it in your face. When you open fire
I close the door.

Debt in their, do you have? Dead air from your finger tips.

Lysol on your mind.

One dam will break
Another will fall
creaky mirror mountains
and her water fountains,
we will wait for the bridge.

ii. i wait for you on river city buses.

Undulating as she gently swayed her corporate legs of energetic forces, beings binding together in totem. The duty and dissipation of ego had settled on each of her fully sentient parts, which somehow in communal agreement, corresponded and banded—forming a secondary (much larger) volatile animal of its own accord. A swirling wave formation in cyclic coloration, transparent and distorting reality, from certain visual appreciation.

I watch her move through the organic green congregation, where the spongy moss discuss their plans for complementing the world. To the moss, cooperation was what the name of the forest game was all about. The self-contained aquatic creature transversed the moss' mangrove of morbid contemplation, for the air all around their forest had recently changed. There was a new pressure, a new force at work, whose source they could not ascertain.

The moss garnered its connection with the world through a sensation of vibrations. Without eyes, they could see. Without ears, they could hear. Their bodies were attuned to the preternatural symbolic system directly underlying the material of existence.

iii. the cog nit sweater

what a cog nit sweater I’ve weaved
elsewhat and more
never put
to get her mind
riled up in

I sleep beneath the
glutinous clouds
chewing you like cream
not mine
I sleep beneath
the glutinous
clouds chewing
they sit on kitchen shelves

Tne anonymous call (a brand new you) are suspect
excecution. murder. mayhem. in my dreams
my dreams waiting waiting period for holding hands
there time time time out
a car can make you a new person

I sleep
mass consumption, erasing the mystery
(this very room) meanwhile, I’m lawyer.
a doctor, a mother—my pocket,
under a secret layer of protection.
Did you hear? Igloo hats are in.

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