i assume

when i think of this / when i think of you
there is a hounding sound

a loud rot, a rumbling death,

a jet engine bug stuck in my ear

it's nauseating –
it’s maggots on steak
in july, the hot smell
mixing with tar in your teeth,

every day.
you can’t understand and

you would lie about it just to make conversation. anyway,
you are on the edge of a burning bridge and
i’m down by the burntwood river,
drinking anything that rises up.

any old mercury or ash and dust to make it stop. but really, this is not the story.

kayas, she says. traditionally, this was the set-up: you would slam whatever was around and i’d splinter pieces of me across the galaxy to survive the impact.

when i think about it too much
i want to dropkick your name until it
can hardly be sounded out anymore,

i’m talking cinematic gore and

teeth skidding across pavement.

we’re talking about initiating flooding, no diversions,

at the burntwood river watching my house

drink anything that rises up, the four walls crumbling down

when it has to do with you.