A Man Becomes Him

A boy pulls stitches from
his knee and stretches them out
on stone tablets. He eats
a typewriter whole
and chokes.

His letters fall out.

He carves a cavern out of stone and stitches.
A pick axe becomes him.

He secures himself a future
by financing further expeditions.

His letters are fully mature by age twenty.
He learns how to have conversations with them.

He fully integrates blasphemy
into the cave's ecosystem.

A moth brings him berries.
He kills the messenger and molds himself out of clay.

He cannot recall a time where wild-fires spread
this far south. He calls upon himself and creates
a one man fire line.

He re-discovers the typewriter in his stomach.
He finds the word for water and pumps it on the fire.
He finds the word for sky and paints it on the domed ceiling.
He finds the word for life and breathes it on the dirt.
He finds the words for himself.

A man becomes him.

White Picket Fence

We were driving in the stakes
of a white picket fence, handkerchiefs
hanging out of our pockets.

A man was whistling
to himself in the distance.

A dog was barking.

The earth was sagging under the post
like an old pair of breasts.

The sun spoke in drawn-out
sighs.

I drank water from a mason jar.

I could taste the dank dirt
beneath my fingernails.

We swung mallets like
a prison chain-gang.

A cow stared at us from across
the way, a wad of cud sifting
between its jaws.

A pile of rocks grumbled
and walked up to us.

We counted our eggs and shot
a rooster out of a cannon.

Hunger hibernated in the pit
of my stomach, so I broke down
and wept.

I squat and defecate in the dirt.