Chickens can break your heart, she says. I like them fat, steamed in stew.
I’m cooking with a dozen rose stems shoved through my chest. Romantic.
Click, click. Practice restraint, practice expansion: spilled language on the rug.
Calm crescendo of K sounds comes next. Calm sound in the blank space
—no sound—nothing. Simile, so clever, buildup bringing you to the never
place. I should be restrained. God’s in abstractions like X of Y.
Slowly, I watch words smoke
into grey film over Malibu.
I drive my Volvo.
I drive my old Volvo west.
Throw the finger,
honk my horn.
Minds can break like a thread of letters. Reeling in the possible shifts,
the nights’ steam unravels. Some horn’s building cleverness in the fog.
Abstract existence : God’s like language spilled from a horn.