Self-Portrait With Dog
The moment the trunk hears its splinters,
it begins to waste. That’s what
dead wood, my dealers
Everything rested in the dining hall.
what is that
ripple in the field
but dusty holidays inventing
No––I have been told
it is the truncated
anatomy of a small, snailish boy
whose boss had glittered
spryly at him,
fracking his way
to the keen position
he has to this day
and yelling, shave the television,
you leggy idiot, while
I eat tofu and pat the dog. I say pat
I will pat the dog, a real bulldog
of an evening.
But what would
Keats say—The woof
of darkness thick, for hid delight?
Who is the dog crying
of you asks.
Rendezvous with Chloe
I spot wind at the Texas inn where
my brother plays charcuterie, his head glowing with sweat.
As he peers into the cheese, my oblong sister
offers her face to violent vegetarians
and prognosticates the part about the bison;
indeed, this bison will have denied paradise to us
before we have even eaten. At this moment,
I am washing my car with source material
and holding my phone to the squeegee,
which allows the foam franchise to perform at slower speeds.
To come to her aid seems counterproductive.
As I say, when making a picture, one must account for such things,
like light making noise on the tangerine,
or where traffic wreaths the salt zone.
Lead life as a vacuous snowball!!! I tell them at the table.
Their applause is silent. Absorb the impassable!!!
Now that you’ve broken the clay, what’s the point? The clay pigeon thrower spits its disks up into range, and Tiny Gomez stands there, poking them out one by one until they have all exploded. Red dust touches our eyes. Afterwards, his silence is so terrific, it beams itself into me. I say, “When I saw myself completed, there was one cloud over the city like a blimp over the pyramids. I don’t know what violence is, anymore.” His shotgun raises to nothing, then he says, “It’s on the inside of your head, McCandless.” And the bookie shakes his head, chews his cud and sucks his tongue; sun is in his semen. Rolling down his sleeve, the cuff’s button floats above his wrist like a lemon in a surrealist painting. He is looking straight up, up at the trembling saucer that skates across our vision.
A local object with this name already exists
The tree deletion is not finished
Required color was not called
This operation is out of scope
Node is managing this resurgence
Specify a different name for property
A superior antecedent was lost
There has been a naming violation
No attribute can be assigned to creator
A derogatory chain has occurred
There is no process to wait for
Cluster base is possibly corrupt
An attempt was made to eliminate
Schema is not good
Number contains foul material
Cannot relieve tag inspector
It is not permitted to call
Parent without assigned child is not permitted
There is a problem with the pipe
Requested operation can only be completed with heavy object
Fatal error while passing the stub
Identity cannot be supplanted
Child already exists
Unknown has been exhausted
Cartridge hazing unavailable
There is nothing to trust
Voice infection has stopped
Memory flap is insecure
Alias must be tazed
Replication too short to endure
Invalid hook type
Clean child failure
Offering is denied
Breach without flag
Catastrophic leg failure
Recovery police are too complex
Too many joints
Pool is full
Hot key is already listening
Arithmetic is dead
Unable to impersonate pipe
Tree is locked
Past Tense Over Zoom
I’ve taught a man the wrong grammar: I went at the store to buy bread.
He speaks as though he has just seen himself shirtless
for the first time. In fact, he is just like me
when I saw myself in a naked spoon,
so love-faced with language.
I walked through the bridge.
Glancing up, a day has slammed
down a board of sunlight; a narrow spider
calls me intruder up in the corner. Blanks of his face
through the screen take so little to disappear me. I did ate at the table.