is the modern synonym for skeleton.

Marrow, a euphemism for hive mind: 

on better days, hormones. 


Head. I’ve learned to assemble the wiring

from IKEA pictographs and indecipherable

craniums. Home. I am nowhere near human


now – the scalp smells like an oil slick,

gathering the corpses of unfortunate beasts

in its tendrils like a greedy cephalopod.



Colliculus = “little hill”


For now, I’m tapping holes in the preserved midbrain

and planting flags for each aspect of perception I conquer.


Once, ice picks hammered out personalities like pollution

and we fished in unknown lakes for the Lochness monster.

We used to read the brain as consequential bumps.

Now, we have to tackle the mind as a mountain range


named after devoured gods, mythological storms,

shapes irrelevant as constellations.  Erecting

religious symbolism for each psychological corpse


in absence, as if we’ll find something more meaningful

than chaos and asymmetry in the flesh.


Let it be – we are comprised of pale, mismatched Legos

and upside-down jellyfish colored like smoke over a sunet

without the immortality.  Phantoms pulsate in the roots

and tell us to act – this is a transient sermon,

forming pulpits from membranes and organs from foramina.

There is no scenery like Apollo nesting in the vesicles.

This is how I’d recite the spine: lucent and finite

in its homily. Movement, the lucky alignment

of windows – breath, as busy junctions and fragile stoplights.


but there was succulent wax


sternum coughing like an ancient crayon

when it cracked


I asked them to be careful with the lungs

when they attached our viscera to moldy twine

wove a splintered basket

lit a saccharine candle

and charged admission after the inflation


what they called an attraction

we claimed a defiance of anatomy

drafting patents in useless oxygen


and there was blood, there was drowning

there was another breed of burning

but hell, we lit a smile

drawn from the corpses of pastels

and then there was the impossible




What are the symptoms of wanting

outlets to melt in your hand, stick

to your cheeks with cheap licorice?


I console my batteries like dying

crickets. Wait for that leg to sputter,

the mic in its thighs to gain power.


Pure water isn’t very conductive.

I dare you to drink from wetlands

that don’t transform your feet to rubber.


The electric tongue, stilled in new tar.

Lily pink lingers on your fingers, misty

on the matter if it was Advil or candy.


It’s not about healing anymore

but liquefying your spine into

rivers brimmed with biomass.


One hemisphere

is a coppery heat

when each carnival

syllable festers in

organoid labyrinths.

Burrows. Pops up

its polyester tents


like scarlet groundhogs

shedding hunters

with the seasons:

animal lungs balloon

in their pockets, emptied

of iron. How rich


is your soil—

your blood—

that boils its few coins

to the autumnal stutters

of clanking hearts

and gunmetal tongues.


We are creatures of prudent stitches

stuffed to stillness: black currants,

puppet buttons, unfathomable tides.

Patchworks of fluid and dark hands.

We slosh. We are full. We are poised.


I spread my neighbor’s flustered aorta

on my nutty morning toast, buttering

quiet guts with envy and wholesome

hearts. We became artists in this way.

Cannibals. Rancid sculptures. Poised.


Later, I’ll squelch my own shadow

like jelly bean crawlers. Exquisite

exoskeletons sprout crooked light

in berries from neighboring teeth.

Their jaws are set. We are poised.


Our hands lie still.

Guts. Jaws. Still.

We are poised.

At least.