A body made of radar blips.

The way a maple wrinkles

away in rings, wrings out

molecules far too leaden

in jubilee to stay in place:


honeycomb veins churn

with breweries of gold.


Woodpeckers here, too

warm. I’d just get drunk

on myself before winter

or the blubber rots off


as pings begin to hibernate


Quicksand, Now

Quickly, love. Gravel mages

begin to morph their hands

from the boulders that con-

sume your own. Dissolve.


Freckles are grains grown

to feed Pegasus. Strands

of hair eat their own tails

and the tangerine wyverns

fertilize your cerebellum.

Lizard brain.


Dry spells.

You’re not talking now,

but sautéing your own

stories for sour produce.


Your dentate orchard

of dragons isn’t sustain-

able. Not on this land.


I’d compare our enlightenment

more to sentient incandescence:


hungry coals, dislodged

from eons of hibernation

at the will of humans left

even hungrier, resourceful.


They’ve no limbs to be

properly predatory, no

motivation unless struck

by the right combination

of copper and electrons.


That is how you, too,

function. To be free

and fiery takes bodies

planetary and boisterous


the ability to erupt

at their own

lethal discretion


against all of our heated pleas

considering itself insecticide


chopping mountaintops for firewood

or boiling oceans away in the name

of culinary arts and sanitation.


In this way, one could relate

a cake to the earth. Succulent

crumbs graze like exhausted

Thomson’s gazelle after pursuit


or birth. Gooey wobbles act

as realtors. This is my slice.


Strawberry magma glazes

into red fondant islands


sustains us, packaged

burnt crust and history

that advertise themselves

as sprinkles or cherries


when the factories

are more complex

than the outcome.


I’m mapping out new lobes

from dirty sunburnt clay,

the only methodology

of teaching myself how to

pillage mythology and lyric

myself a flaming god.


There’s no right

kiln for everyone, remember:

no person can remove nerves

without their permission

and reinstate them as Grecian

mazes made from scorching

mud. Pirate ganglion

yank me from the fire.

Frayed glia are left to chill


only half-hardened. Shoulders


start to slouch out of their sockets.

I accidentally inhale fumes eerily

glossy. Guess I’ll try again later.

Were we really so predictable

our first words would be a plea for atoms

not our own. We’d assume the geometry

of stubborn digits unwilling to change,

the clockface that refuses to acknowledge

it’s faulty mathematical skills. Fetal

dreams could be traced in figure-eight

formations, processed in a language

built on numbers. We’d tinker around

existence in the same manner as drug-

seeking behavior, craving wavelengths

in psychoactive intensity. That is

desperation, isn’t it? We’re not that

easy, just determined. Sentient.

Programmable. Free. Desperate.