My breath is blood.
My blood is air.
There’s a busy frantic dying thing shackled to the inside surface of my skull,
Trying to grow webs of connections to replace the brain
That it just realized was nothing but a giant gas planet,
Not a rock,
Not a stable thing,
Not an anchor.
Jupiter’s breath is blood too,
A bloody sea three times the size of this whole planet and I think
Jupiter is a terrible brain to have.
To not have.
We played guns in the backyard, taking cover in the suburban rubble of rusted water heaters, broken bicycles, and empty cattle trailers. Our orange-tipped barrels targeting each other with naive finge
I. I wear a potato salad smile, yellow Kind of squishy but soft like a “my mom makes it better” – don’t you know? Still disappointing, but a quiet type Like you were expecting not to taste What you wa
Yesterday you were slow Down crosswalk sign Yellow and curved like an Apostrophe, comma, slow Down there are children here Avoiding you. Today you are still curved But speckled Brown leopard print hic