The
doctor, not the
monster.
The melodrama
& its
denouement.
The movements
within
the thin
tin rocket ship.
Sulfuric sparks
like
script, limn
the limbs
of the alembic;
reduced
from spirits,
the salve
reigns in
the storm
over
the archipelago
where pelicans
distend
their
mammoth riffs. In the
CRISPR,
a sequence
of seeming random
numbers
bouncing along
the ionosphere
like fleas.
My garden
is full of
styrofoam peanuts
which look more
like fat maggots
from the air
where my cousin’s
drone
hovers. Our
neighbor’s kitchen
counter
tops are coated
in human tears,
a model home filled
with blank books,
open the doors
& all the people
can see you,
too.
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