I’M FILLED WITH STRIPES

i may have to flip over my own bowl in order to have an all-out domicile.
language is what i do with my tongue and my other tongue, licking out
the bowls of others clumsily, and salivating very inappropriately.
in a sonagram, some thing i could later say is seen.
i hear myself later saying it and i can see it but i can’t read it.  instead i see two colors
overwarming and sliding away from me, sliding across ice on the melt made by their last fever.
dying heat.  an utterance that rotoscopes me: previously sunken, i now see,
beneath the underside of the hardened cortex of the living world.