These Corn-Printed Instructions
listen to this poem
There is fear of fire and while the county commissions hundreds of goats to clear the brush from the mountain sides, the happy Californian Cows are chewing mealy grain, their insides becoming dirt with the strings of battery acid, cholesterol, ethernet cords. We watch the freeway traffic in our veins while the cows enjoy a fine massage, the earth again like the two pieces of a wrecked notebook page. When I tell you that we are also sick you fall down and hold the grass into a perfect sleep. I know you are an empty dress on the floor. I keep fixing myself this way. I read and follow the corn-printed instructions on the packaging but we fall apart anyway. You say THE LINES OF MAL-NURISHMENT CAN BE FOLLOWED INTO EACH DIZZY PORE. Sometimes your hairs messy the bathroom sink and I can’t ignore the watery gloss of a microwavable meal. Sometimes when I touch your head my hand is made of hot ash. Sometimes you say I AM ALONE.