I am developing a codex
that relates a pattern
in drips of hot plastic
to every word in
the dictionary.
I will feed it the transcripts
of our Facebook chat log
and hang it in our living room
as a family portrait.
I will feed it the transcripts
of my paranoid despairs,
dialogues played out
before sleep, in the shower,
imagined scenarios of
branching realities.
I will hang it
in our children’s room
as an extended family portrait.
To escape the noise
a wood nymphette
type told me to go
to the trees.
When I went to the
trees they were all
taken by shaken
people.
If you have inhaled
the scent of hot
plastic too come
here
and stand shaking.
I have brought bags
of breaded chicken
to eat.
This is a
crumpled sock
stuffed inside
the mouth
the crinkles
expanding
surface area
for every
possible
feeling
This is a
massive fish
with big teeth
floating silently
under the still
surface of a
glassy lake
This is laying
in a bed
of Fage yogurt
so as to make
an impression
on something
This is a
cut on soft
smooth skin,
performing
a dissection,
one incision
out if which
your gorgeous
ness unfurls