3rd iteration of an ongoing collaborative poem

i speak with speeding and hear
the weakening of my goose fat tongue
with water gushing
from my hands like a dead drowner-
bloated-
that comes to on an oily floor.
crawls.
makes it as far as a corner.

a vast emptiness is my sex void.
i'm gunning to get in it
pushing all prickles off the skin.
I AM GUMMING
the rear leather interior--
roughhandled saddlesitter hips
keep pumping over and open
across waxy walls i just made up
of vented air darkness.

losing a bodily battle
pouring favorite damages
down my own chutes
on my own.
everything works out
in the end of my brittle brain cube.
hear that.
everything.

i am knawing. this time it’s
rocks in anguish.
you therapy me by
sneaking my sleeping fingers
into a key hole.
i wake open the lock.

so more dead fish have died clumsily.
we eat the poor suckers
without breaking a sweat.
i have died many times too
in my memory, slowly.
the language i speak
is with and around broken tusks.
why i languish in shallows of
what i am.

and my desire for static to numb me
is vaporous.
i can't hear
whether or not you are coming.
the light shines
and then it is dark
and this happens
forever.


(written with J Ryan Fyfe)

SILVER SHOTGUN

my grown trunk organizes its sections
and stands. i’m hearing
coffee-colored bile pour over my cutlets.
working to prefer the gods of luck
over lights of force,
i don’t explain that i am only cooking
a book to eat it
to overlap its stressors with my need.
futures bang their heads inside the
white fudgey fists of a new class of adults.
boats will bring them here, lands that yell
for gentry.  a chorus of rattling tables.
dropping fists, i imagine.
i don’t know. but now i’m reaching
tensile for the hell.