Every kind of sweat and sense of star in a dead Viking; reverberations: as if emotion split apart a wand; emotions cover, take over ordinarily; but meth moves the bones in your face transformational like that opposum head flattened mat of cells dead profile sponged by airy insects; specificity eats bone. Vibrations of differently wired hungers; defenders on the radio; how to hold a knife and sleep so close to consciousness it's like your eyes are always open: the skin of another creature; lions biting elephant organs; teeth in ass and sand; substance moving in a barn's devices; snipped by an automatic realism; (meat of) electrically stacked frames of uneven city. Always dead before you know it, anyway; Buddy Miles singing Texas, head cocked: shouting into his own crying; things fill up: spill their piss; coins and vapors; who knows; who really understands the privledge of song or pork belly; (too much) light: she lets her dress slip, the white of it, away; (light) puts a spell on you: always dead before you know it. Who knows how specificity eats the dead; splits apart an electrically close sponge of crying; a privileged kind of sweat dresses the song; coins move a star; automatic dead miles of substance close your face in reverberations; meat stacked on the wand; frames hold defenders flattened by realism in sand; elephants spill their piss (moving) like the vibrations of an uneven sleep. Shouting and crying on the radio an uneven stack of airy moving death; who really understands transformational things like hunger; your teeth slip in air; specificity takes over your covered bones; organs cover reverberations; biting devices sense every skin; defenders snipped by their own realism; who knows; who understands; the bones in your face dress the song. Insects sponge reverberations; wand split apart by an automatic hunger; electrically open; flattened profile of teeth; to sleep so close to a barn it's like you're always crying; vibrations of airy hunger; shouting into a transformational device; coins of uneven city; light moved by defenders; head cocked to a sense of star or radio; reverberations of the bones in your face. Buddy Miles' death wand moves; cells slip apart; automatic radio sweat; she lets her dress slip into a creature's vibrations; a transformational way of moving ordinarily; who knows how to organ vapor; to sponge dead hungers; spill a sense of star or realism over airy insects; reverberations fill meat; too much light splits bone. Always vapor, really; light on stacked defenders; every bone, the white of it, moving away; flattened ordinarily; sleep dresses your face like a metal realism; substance moving in your belly; barn on the radio; uneven wand eats meth; knife splits apart a specificity; who knows how to cover hunger; to piss a bone; how to sleep organs away. City flattened vapor realism; too much moving wired in your eyes; emotions and uneven teeth; to sleep so close to the skin of another it's like biting; to cover, take cover; hunger takes over a barn; a knife in vibrations; who knows how to hold an insect; to eat a cell; how to slip defenders into a sense of death to move the bones away.

THE SIMILES, EPISODE 1: EAT YOUR GREENBEANS

Mother: You better eat your green beans unless you wanna look like an old scratch instead of something the lord made.

Son: But they taste like skin.

Mother: Don't you dare talk to me like I'm some whitefaced doll sewn in an Alpine meadow that you can just hang out with on the moon because nobody on earth likes you.

Son: Lots of people like me. I'm like euphoria for British rockabilly addicts.

Mother: Actually, you're like an American rapper sucking the milk out of a fainting goat.

Son: You're like a person who just sits on a chair and paints meat.

Mother: You're like a local Nebraska television cameraman eating a macaroni salad on break.

Son: You're like a middle-aged guy from Arizona who just opened the door of his Honda Civic.

Mother: You're like the hot, uncomfortable air that comes out of the Honda Civic when he opens the door.

Son: You're like a twelve-year-old girl named Brianna eating a wasabi pea.

Mother: You're like someone tired of life walking around in an oversize T-shirt at Busch Gardens in Tampa Bay drinking a large diet Cherry Coke.

Son: You're like one of those people who reads in a coffee shop, holding the book so that everyone can see the author and see how "smart" and "interesting" you are because you read Djuana Barnes or Malcolm Lowry, though you assume the people who surround you don't even know who those authors are, which makes you feel a very satisfying sense of superiority, and you move your eyes over the same sentence for the 10th time thinking how stupid everyone is.

Mother: You're like one of those people who sits on the train and talks on your phone loud enough so that everyone can hear you because you think everything you're saying is so specific and funny and that you're entertaining the passengers on the train like some philosopher stand-up comic and that everyone is just pretending to read their magazines or look out their window when what they're really doing is concentrating on your every word and smiling to themselves because you're so insightful and hilarious.

Son: You're like a 46-year-old woman walking along Ogden Avenue smoking a cigarette with your eyes squinted and wrinkles all around your mouth and I see you from the window of a car and think just how sad your life must be walking however many miles and inhaling all that ugly smoke in the summer heat.

Mother: You're like the kid that that woman abandoned and you live with your grandma in a small apartment surrounded by her cats and the smoke of her Pall Mall cigarettes and the sound of game shows and you have no friends and sometimes you stand outside behind the apartment building at the edge of the parking lot by a chain link fence that weeds have grown through and you feel the sun-warmed fence with your fingers and listen to the drone of insects.

Son: You're like the girl who lives in the apartment next door that that kid decided not to become friends with because she is pale and boring and her breath smells and her parents are always yelling at her and she doesn't even know how to play with her toys and she sits outside on the grass by the sidewalk with her hair all shiny because it hasn't been washed in a long time and she sits there and draws some weird uneven line with a piece of chalk on the sidewalk like her mind is dead.

Mother: You're like a man who can't walk in a straight line during a drunk driving test and so you sit down instead of trying to finish the test and the cops push you onto your stomach and handcuff you and your lip is bleeding and your teeth ache and as they stand you up you start to cry and let saliva drip out of your mouth in protest and your eyes are closed.

Son: Why do you talk to me like this?

Mother: Because you need to eat your green beans. So just act like they're something else you like.

ELEGY

Dog relaxing in fungus.
Sleeping erasing kings.
Bugs engrossed in drain.
Wet sugarhouse thunder.
Bugs grow land.
Bloodforts.
Dirty falcon edge.
Drunken penny guru.
Gospel lost in its own growth.
Hands gathering dung on the savannah.
Roots of atmosphere.
Anciently retarded.
The gun fired makes spontaneous luxury and spins the bottle.
Bends youth to essence of erased kings.
Drug addict sponges.
Animal gangster cream.
Sore maiden weather.
Erupts the needle.
Someone's beauty measured by how much you want to eat their asshole.
Pop star passenger vehicles covered with tears and sunshine sounds.
People = shit.
Slim vinegar disguise.
Sweat lodge films.
Radar and wintersleep.
Things on fire moving into the sky.
Ghost feelings on toilet looking at new star paper.
Chinese food doom.
Lyrical products for curly hair.
Powerhouse teasing skin out of cathedrals.
Stems under Medusa.
Girl making dark Midwestern velvet things happen with one hand in pocket.
Lulled by cracks.
Songs you turn up and into.
Confessions of a minor spirit.
Ways of sun in waves coming apart.
No frame suffers from what it holds.
Hulks building on hulks in honkeytonks.
Longing builds locations.
Crowns on afraid things.
Buttons made out of dead rockets.
Meadow-shit love-shorts.
Ruins get birds.
Some kid burning a rat in a bottle.
Independent contours of an emptiness physical against thought.
Every feeling a moaning hive covered with vampire hair.
Thug-smoke.
Head down a sound in Northern works.
Light on the leftovers we run to hungry on the hills of Iron Maiden.
Chaos/little hairs.
Slow in the same places.
Getting cold in a name.
Kid eating milk and cookies building a big alone darling American body.
Light digging in.
Sleepiness in Dairy Queen.
Something scraped off another's need.
A drop of blood in a ministry of rocks.
Am I yours or am I just wrong?
Nests where Hank Williams nicked himself turning to go on.
Throwing bottles at rocks making them sharper.
One thing turning into another.
Everything from heels to tomorrow.
Running away.
Skin that makes yours continue.
The gun turns one thing into another.
Fake baby sleeping on a single dot of light.

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