Beauty Malaise & Cloudstain


I have a fantasy about erupting into space

on the heel of a glacier, like meltwater glass

strapless like a divorcee, like a white pony lying

down in the middle of an argument. I go off like 

the debutante's gun in the dream where I come 

to worship her wounds. Look, rocky debris

we get bigger as we leave. Dropped into infinity

coils, something in me breaks down: touched

so lightly it could be anything. It could be the 

birth of bluegrass, the better part of a bottom

lip, ribs, or rafters. Maybe I am too heavy to

do the lifts but I am a lamb survivor in a cutty

pastoral. If we include the ocean floor then roll

tape. I tried to baptize AJ in a milky toddy

and I almost drowned him. I said focus

on the growing rabbit. I said focus on 

Ginger Rogers: she has killer legs like a 

ghoul. I did it well and I missed it. I said shelter

shelter shelter. I shared everything with the itch. 


Tremolo, fluttering eyelid. I take a taxi to the shoe

shiners. That's the whole joke. That's the so-called

gulping, the quasi-text. As I fly upward, I make bubble

curtains. I sing for the camera come as you are 

making the darling thing grow. I learn upon leaving

that the zoom lens is refrigerated, that the earth wants

us to cool quickly and curl into pearly inner worlds. I do

it well and I get the bends. I hem the atmosphere's skirt

for a party. I eat the foam-filled air. If we include 

the ocean floor, then I land. The tides offer rolling 

admission and all of the salty objects are on loan.