In the pews, boiling headless roosters.
Cornea kicked out in visionary scuffles,
those glass-stained mosaic cockfights.
Today, I’ve come in my cloudless best,
shadows sewn in wet petticoats, drowned
retina, lambskin, by ladles for hands.
Did you hear that His cerebrospinal fluid
clucks limply while it boils down the cones
and rods like thermometer mercury?
They’ve forgotten their colors.
Spherical bodies, tumble with the earth.
Have you seen it yet?
I asked it to embalm the sun and all of our laws.
I asked it to feed the starving constellations shivering in celestial gutters.
I asked to drink as well, to drown and hallucinate.
I asked for it to manifest.
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.
Prepare those salient ribs for divine maws
with your favorite barbecue
more sucrose than home.
Lay down your arms. Limbs,
mannequins of violent angles.
Shrapnel nails. Plastic smiling.
Chests twist in Mobius smoke
pale as cigarettes. Addicts for
throats like the Old Testament.
Parallelogram claws intersect
intention with a perpendicular
pastel. Its softness cracks like
china. Roundness to tectonics.
The chips tingle ice. Isosceles.
Dishes shake at sixty degrees.
Why should we see sharpness,
shapes where colors could flow?
Drink analytically. I’d rather cut
your hands than calm the stirring.
to breathe is an inverse process
to be more intimate
with my own lungs
than the language
that hatches from
and pitted citrus
to slather my own lips, boiling
clementines and speaking suns
themselves. To know systems
and universes more than our
melting orangesicle mouths
our skeletons rather than gods.