Orthogon

My fingers lie tangled

in a universal hertz

 

unable to tell pleading

from cradling young

sounds in whirlpool

 

eggs. They speak to

you, as well. Create

the mouth’s angles

Lochness ellipses

and tricky tongues

 

so we could hatch

the proper noises:

 

frowns, slippery

as new waterfowl

 

vital as the lunar

orbit to our shores

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Good Health

there is no stillness

 

intestinal amplitudes

hungry for motion

 

valleys fertile in

stagnant blood:

 

the stomach, soggy

with desperation

 

heavy with tissue

bent in red robes

 

footprints leading

from the throat

 

planting atoms

for the filling

 

where your mind

sips its prayers

 

for continuation.

Sheepishly

How much do you think you can purify

with flagellation and broilers?

 

Carry through night

with a wintry guise.

Flick the guilt off

your meaty spine

 

with whips wet in the shrieks of lambs.

First is birth—inherently dirty.

Clean yourself.

Brush up.

 

Prepare those salient ribs for divine maws

with your favorite barbecue

 

more sucrose than home.

Chatter (Think Rabbit II)

I could diagnose your teeth as snowshoes.

 

I’ve never seen a blizzard bleed before,

but it’s thumped against my own skull

and forged tetanus

from cranial musk.

 

Spotted white, I know your throat is infected.

 

I’d call it water on the brain, but it’s simply

the Spring melt. The amygdala’s expansion,

Darwin’s way of summoning those hounds

through anything holy.

Mammalia is chronic.

The treatment is to speak

as lightly as the shedding.