the sneezes this season have nearly been the death of me
they won’t stop arriving with brochures in hand
fancy places of dizzy escapes

draping curtains and tea parties with captain-fetish
steering the cruise along an itchy ceiling, and shoveling

from coagulating round corners of each
paste-dripped longing, who
can’t wait to break circuitry

and snap fingers
in a twitch of the nostril hair
to find ourselves standing in Nepal
in a bathroom stall
in a fortress made of gold, something
far far from here

in a story untold, in a dining room dish-dress
dancing round the hour with a ball-room balloon-briefcase, keeping
all the mugs on their shoes and all their criminal head-shots in their toe nails

another coffin cloned closed with a sign of a hand-print stolen from an unspoken
walk-signal in a depiction for what it is to speak truth, in an
echo in a swollen gland in upside down bat sleep

guano for the cockroaches in caves deep beneath
and their friends
the glowworm silk thread endless undead continuation of attracting insects

which bite and follow into the wheel of suffering
rotating over and through
until technology invents the tire, and

it costs a lot to replace a tire, tires
are costly and come with the car in many cases
cars do not come with the tires they wear but
inherit what it is to rotate inherit what it is
to rotate

we inherit what it is to rotate through life with the tires
of our brains
telling us how to buy

new and inexpensive car parts or new and used
cars or new and used situations
bubble gum wrappers circumstances we buy

situations and circumstances from the generalization of a we
from a we-we hour in the night, in the back
of the brain, where I

wait and watch and sit
and knit and climb and comb and design
a replica of all the things I’m about to say
and say what I’m about to say by saying what
I’m about to say which is what I’m saying

and it continues on into the world
above these
cavern-headquarters into the ears of antelope
who die and become the ingredients of the
earth birthing itself anew in the womb
of a cloud, that didn’t have a gender, until now

as it births rain

we drink the tears of dead people
and hear in the brain
and echo of car tires and echo of streets on parade
without a tidal wave to wipe clean the title
of our names, that you

have a name a name that has a resonance to say your name
to call your name from the flame of time
a reflection of the flame, a reflection is time to
call forth your name the echo of the flame from which you are the
flame from which all this is, yet your

name, please place your specific name here:________________
haunts the margins of a seaming whisper


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