Written in the dark internetless space of a few weeks ago. formatting is of course fucked.

you ramble into the hollow nest I’ve made on a dripping branch without punctuation dragging your tongue along light bones have you found marrow yet or is this a surface scrape a slight lifting of movable skin where the blood has slipped out forgetting for a second to be inside of to be on the other side of breathing
you we collect the yellow strips of cellophane from cigarette packs the hamburger wrappers the bits of tinsel to weave into walls knitting with hard tongues a solid home on a drying branch spending hours bandaging our foot our leg our chin our neck our belly our knee our elbow our ear to keep the blood in to keep piling the walls with mud until they’re warm enough

The plan is to put poems inbetween each chapter of The G of T as kinda the connection between chapters sorta. i'm concerned a little about shift of tone so yeah...here's an example!



landscaped



there are people i can’t imagine getting old

standing on breath puffed porch watching
snow fall winter and i thought she was perfect

small freckle on her nose (slightly oversized
she hated that part of herself the most) hair
(light brown sandy blonde cut layered like water
falling always smelled like papaya although
I still don’t know what that smells like) eyes (brown
pools of shade she’d pout like that with those and
I’d do this babbling) palms (so many tiny lines
a map to her fingers delicate bird bones) mole
on her right breast (kissed soft eagerly lingered
and her hand squeezed the back of my neck) laugh
(like stepping off a cliff and waking up relieved
although i did enjoy the feeling of falling)



“Stay” Coal. December 28 1999: 17.