11/20/2023 Dylan Kriegertextbook anomaly going home hurts my throat now glass half dead cat, photos too exposed to know what happened someone upstairs insists there is another term for praying the rosary (impossible to recall impossible to rule out) and the rest of the night is solid goose chase into catechism smashing translucence in case it’s faking tip of the tongue lost in laundry as if some jeans pocket jingles the sacred heart of the joke folded into filmy erasure, but in the morning we admit there’s no such language half-remembered from a field guide to the american southwest, what matters is we knew we were mistaken all along we checked, in fact: the sinkhole in the dictionary isn’t big enough for church words to drop down what matters is it doesn’t matter the hunt for nothing sounds fun with our dinky little flashlights flipping the property blind dark to blind white, wedged between revelations blinked into heavy mascara all around us, vinca invisibly attempts photosynthesis on a 9-volt battery wheels get dizzy with their own reinvention coming home is like that complex machinery rubbed pink drunk again under the floorboards old blood clots saved under the sink heart-shaped boxes full of baby teeth i pinch their soft spots, bone by bone nine cavities whispered into cellophane call it the carnage of the nursery bartering glass beads for edible wings there, another name for praying the rosary new search results for all our meathooks strung up like christmas in the land of disbelief monsters like me some children blow whole nightlights hiding from monsters like me midwest goodbyes start early so you can hear the end before you’re dead a decades-long tornado siren, special Lord of the Flies edition of Monopoly in which i am the pig’s head, and then a single dollar bill stolen over and over again and then the surface of reality burns the game into its scrotum and that’s how economies are created, baby: by the loose scabs dangling from our bodies, more sick fruit, watchful vultures waving hi from the top floor, the skyline looks like a staticky tv, obscured tapeworm what if demolition is best witnessed from no distance whatsoever? no more dilemma of the spectator, just snowfalls of sheetrock they’d find me curled up under the rubble of your bedroom closet where no one in their right mind ever believed you that i lived
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