wake up, rod

MARKET IN COMFORT i. ow di bodi Di bodi ain't mine, it's spore splayed in a jar of suspensory goo. It's filth & airless here, no tug to toke at, no want to want after. I'm asking for a film to coat me in your cells exact cilia, feel how your touch means like stick left over from bandaid, neon white after pinch. The body isn't well & won't ask. ii. pin hip, or, absolve me to the kingdom of coma It shouldn't be seen rat-eye beading salt licks as water; it shouldn't be seen & along the way to grandma's you become Grandma yourself, a partition of cookies & slack-jaw noon naps. Signature aftermath stop the distillatory push, stop the hoard of butterfly clips, spit lances, bandages blown in glass to order. You are laying jokes thick as magmad sweet pie, an attempt to rit. the convulsive pin stick dynamo. iii. jar The tire snapped his skull in a flash of pepsi crush. Every bottle in the world being redeemed at once. A loud crowd of pai...

never take on a new color they are remiss cells. You love me because I let you predict me. My crisis is mechanical, a few dead pixels can be ignored, the viewing experience preserved at just-below optimal comfort. The first thing you learn about love is amnesia, a convenient forgetting expunges the heart and clears the palette. Aside from a dim red spot from another time I'm almost whole enough to want.

Jon's poem ("HIDE YOUR LIGHT UNDER A BUSHEL") has sparked an idea for an assignment. It's simple. Write your discomfort. That's it. -B.