Formally I Submit This Flat Thing

There is no way to solve the person
who knows the fragility of your aging cartilage
and the whisper gray shards of your eyes
and speaks one heavy phrase
after another

There is no memory kind enough
to recall these incantations
and to give them to a suspicious child
in shoes abraded by loose pavement

There is no space silent enough
to give purchase to these spit wet words
to allow their bonds to cure
and find the safety of meaning

Calendar of Happiness

The people in my family are the physical ghosts
united by our particular sense of industry
and a brutal kindness hidden in our throats

We heap the memory meat into great quivering mountains
We have never written memoirs
or held particular views

We are the ultimate blank slate
adhering to this sentimental
pride in the retreat

We are prototypes who long for the dry winter
who bring hopeless words to the city congregations
who await glass rain
hot cutting us down
in our new leather shoes

Lorenzo

Dad is a troublemaker. Mom is an infuriatingly humble web geek. Gramma P is an alcohol guru. Gramma F is a typical tv nerd. Grampa P is a writer. Grampa F is a hipster-friendly food fan. Sister is a communicator.

We obtain the pooch and name the pooch Dramble. A rotund fellow in the distribution racket who visits Gramma P says that the pooch has the haunches of a draught horse. Mom insinuates that she may create a special blog for the pooch and a humorous Twitter persona to boot. Dad ties a chain of uninflated balloons to the pooch's tail.

Grampa P composes a sonnet about the pooch and the recreational activities we engage in. Gramma F compares the pooch favorably to the one on Frasier. Grampa F makes the pooch organic root vegetable infused turkey chorizo. Sister weeps.

Anon Polygraph

My problem started nine months back when a faithful spiritual spell caster built my home. He was having some dumbfounded matrimonial work and that was all. I really was confused by the father of my internet kids in my life. The spell caster started having problem with a strange family intercession.

I want to know a problem and my kids are quitting and my husband never believed his living situation. After I started putting my five friends through hell it dawn on me on that I needed my good things. I never trusted our home. A spell caster is telling me all of it to no avail.

Cylinder with Die-Cut Phallus Glyphs

I am taking care of my good people. Mending their upholstery, rinsing their hosiery, pressing their linens. They will have proper materials in which to wrap themselves, so I may avoid watching the actions of their external anatomy when I give them their meals, their moral lessons, and their friendship behaviors.

I never complain about my good people; they will own my flesh in time.

The Fossil Trade

When I imagine an extant trilobite
I see a husk overturned
Molested by the beaks of gulls
argued over by sea-eagles
Who leave scraps of calcite carapace
half-buried in sand
to bloody children's feet
to be collected by artists
in the employ of coastal tourists
who desire the form of windchimes
but not the sound

Dead Soap Sandwich

Famous dog owners are
heavily influenced

By abnormal notable artists
the kind with quick lips
eyelashes like vinyl
cold hidden skin
and pronoun coronas

In the easy symmetry
of the suburbs

They pleasure grateful relations
with their hands
and other instruments, things
imported from borderless nations

On obsolete maps

A Wee Dram O' Ruxpin Muggle

Somebody needs to get this couple a bunch of desserts. Apparently, they went batshit.

I was disgusted with their social media management lessons. People of faith haven't gone bankrupt. People of faith posted a negative review on Yelp about scumbags.

People of faith are completely beyond business behavior.

Margarita Recipes of the Ancient Astronauts

The principal is a blowhard. We don't listen to his advice, and we disrespect him in public. He does not know happiness, and if he did, we would abduct it, make it our own, and flaunt it.

After we stole the principal's paddle, we learned that he phoned a popular conservative talk radio program and vented his righteous rage, condemning American Youth as a generation of shit peddlers and tweet spammers. We obtained a recording of the call and remixed it into a raging techno anthem.

At senior prom, we plan on overtaking the DJ and forcing the gathering of sycophantic margarine suckers to listen to our techno remix. Our pain will slam into them like the storm of an ocean, and all that will be left is soggy debris, condoms and cummerbunds and corsets. Each of us will take a trophy. Our future lovers will not understand the keepsakes on our mantles and nightstands. We will relive that old ecstasy through late night phone calls and get-togethers. Even though we will be scattered across the country, we'll probably be in the same place occasionally for professional conferences.

Crease the Morning

I have this extremely vivid and titillating fantasy in which all of the teachers I ever had gather to hold a conference about me and my solitary arid flavor. These people span the demographics with wild abandon, and I'm thrilled that each one is in an adequate financial state to attend the conference as well as dine liberally at the celebrated local eateries. All of my teachers were wholesome people who celebrated the virtues of fresh, organic produce, comfortable, modest footwear, quiet music for bedrooms, and vigorous philosophical practices. These people in this town cause a stir, enlivening municipal nightlife and inspiring a sense of solemn introspection in even the most stubbornly idiotic members of the community.

I delight in reconfiguring this cosmopolitan group for sexual escapades, as they break off into couples, triads, and occasionally larger groups to explore the breadth of their collective sexuality. Light-headed with the product of profusely lauded local wineries, my former teachers become students: students of each others' tenderest physical needs. Among my favorite conjurings is a multi-function dildo called The Laughing Giraffe, which serves as a sort of relay stick in one of my scenarios.

I should mention that my teachers have all booked rooms in the largest bed and breakfast in the region, which - in addition to its considerable historic charm - creates an ideal setting for the kinds of erotic adventures I have described above.

Black Snap

One night soon I can invent a brother you don't have and my lie will be instantly discovered. Then I can learn about the dull syllables you carry under your tongue. I'll tell you about the pencil lead in my foot, as if it is equivalent.

You'll give me a cigarette. I'll tell you that the lies slip from my lips as easy as breath. That reveals as much about me as you need to know, I imagine.

You'll leave that stupid hat in my room, not realizing it's the last time you'll see it. Eventually, my memory of you will be the hat you left, the weight of your tongue, and the intricacy of your eyebrows.

Drawings of Leaves and Hands

I was never a dog owner
or a fish lover
or the kind to look at a mushroom
and feel any kind of
kinship

I never knew the scent
of a gerbil's
breath
or of dry blood
or of a blanket reeking
of skin oil
and rain

I kept love
I kept it like time
I slept in it
and never
dreamed

Skull Missing

Women with promises and gallery tickets walk through the pediatric damage zones. I fixate on one daughter of a moist realm and imagine her with the hair of a seemingly charming Muslim. I fill her heart with cold animal blood and steal her genius ideas about soil potential. The women keep coming and I lose track of this one I chose. They keep coming, stuffing the throat of our city.

Shame Cell

You remember the game we played. The yellow yard, the outboard motor, the piles of rebar. You remember the damp masks we wore when we crossed the clothes on the line. The crying doves, the kidney-shaped watering can, the place where we buried the rabbit when its fear settled into its flesh and brought it into the cold. You remember the taste of the pennies we found in a jar under his tools and his ashtrays.

Searing Splatter-Rock Tantrums

Raid the archives of the decorative self-operated family impersonators! Wreck yourself on the cohesive harmony of genetic blasphemy!

Drum Machines at Their Fartiest

It will be pleasant for me if you want with me to research bleeding-edge automotive technology. You have very much interested me. It will be very pleasant for me to find the friend or second half through the Internet. At supervision of your structure I very much have become interested in you. My name is Anna. If you want with me to explore the outer limits of furniture design then write to me.

We can exchange photos.

Double-Album Whippet Fantasia

I have feather hands. I caught the tools you threw. I have damaged muscle juice.

I call blood muscle juice. You act on malicious impulses. My weakness in my hands is fully crippling.

You win all fights. You work in the world with ferocity that blinds me. There is a heat in me that never subsides.

Goofy Faux-Symphonics

I have a friend who brags about his or her sexual kinks. He or she finds his or her vainglory to be greatly inflated when speaking about the spankings of his or her buttocks with orange paddles. His or her pulse audibly quickens when conversing casually about the eroticism inherent in the wearing of gauze upon his or her head. And sometimes I eat venison with my friend until the pleasure center of his or her brain is stimulated to the point of glossolalia, at which time I whisper the entire Book of Exodus into his or her ear. This is the only kink in which I participate; it is mostly a good reason to memorize a book of the Old Testament and eat a buck.

Barfy Growls

Steve and Isabelle know a way to create sheets of noodle clothing. Some of the output could be considered a patriotic act. In my robust imagination I see nose pads which allow a device to rest on your face.

I found very little record of partners in industry who can help make these voice commands swirl in wild ecstasy.

Outrageously Heavy Cocktail

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