Begin mapping between muscle and skin where you are vibration. In bed on New Year's Day, fictive jerks of the wrist write morning papers, urgent, angry. Be the ringing. In someone else's ear— your ear: a red din bulging up, dreadful like mounts of wordless matter. Resolution: Check the post-nasal drip of that scream. How upsetting— if the world would be let in on your secret. Resolution: Promise tomorrow. I'll keep my head on a crawling pillow, trace my clenched jaw, memory

I turned up at the gate in a souvenir basket flattened bills in my back pocket, a slap on my left wrist. The myth that would be me. The truth was a child-like greed for greener backyards tall fences and water gun fights. But running does nothing when a countryman boulders you naked into the concrete, makes you kiss the dead land goodbye, and you're infinite. The myth is his boot on my ribs. I'm not ashamed to feed off this smoke, to last a hundred years, making my exit from t

I found me all by myself in a basement room in Hudsonville, Michigan of all places. You were holding my textile constitution, weighing the small fact of my feet in your palm, thinking. I watched my ankles fold without the reservation of human joints. I shook my little maracas and you smiled. In your hands my limbs were bouncy, expressive. I was something special. Clearly, I came from the sun now set across my cheeks, over cinnamon burnish. Never not thinking about his own, a