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.


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.


Tread the line between therapy and poison
like huddled rattles
in the Black Hills.
Antidotes were made for arrows
and glands,

not the mouths
dripping in indigo and mice.

Thin strips of soggy pelt
mate ecstasy
with rigor mortis.

There’s expertise. There’s experimentation.
The difference lies in the electrons
lining pufferfish lungs.
There’s three protons
between breath and salt
and one distracted knife
between breathing or not.

The Allure is Crepuscular

for nights when stallions blend

into the field, cool watercolors

weeping into



such nights when saddles taste

like lemonade from the groves

licking quicksand

instead of springs.


A sprig of lavender to summon

seasons, to trot the quilting sky

into the cortices

instead of dusk:


a tame pastel or pleasant scent

was never enough to slaughter

throttled astrocytes

with a broken leg.

There’s Calcium in Your Bones, but Nowhere Else

Misguided as mammalian milk

painting Picasso in a fish tank,


you are surrounded by udders

leaking pastels to our oxygen

and a new hormone mistaken


as growth. Maturity is beige

and splotchy in fluorescence.

We’ve gouged out timelines

for submerged glands; there


springs up nothing but black.

Start a truck with a tank full

of blood. We are rich in oil.


Barter with scaled tongue.


Swallow the slippery fear,


sweltering like the sashays

of overheated koi. Useless

and breathless as old blood

boiling in kettle guts. Red.


They return to their jugular

origins. Roasted with their

eggshells. Drown or leave


out the urethra. Desperate.


Blue. Scavenge for oxygen

in empty intestines. Dead

bubbles. Fried, if not red.