PLAYER 1
You know what? Find. I am anticop—and a cryofat
woodchronic neoplot lacxt goob picking
my own bibliogoogers and flicking them
onto the Christmas table.
PLAYER 2
I drove to the store in traffic, I walked through the
parking lot, through the doors, between the shelves, I
thought of the men between what you wanted
what I wanted, what your brother wanted, what
your sister would eat, what was seasonally appropriate
and available, last year’s leftovers rotting,
the hard shits I had for four days, prep time,
how big pots and pans, experience with different
bisections of breathing animals into cold meat, what name
of ancient grain might mean for taste, texture,
symbolic value to those at table…
PLAYER 3
Dinner cookie, later cookie, night cookie,
dream cookie, close
PLAYER 4
Why didn’t they go to work? Shut up and go to
work. I’m going to bring it up. Who can believe it?
What are you protesting? Every population has
good and bad apples, bad apples kill bad apples—
the rest make nominal applesauce.
PLAYER 1
Sucra-therms donk cold
eve colono-star-scape—talked
with friends one now lawyer
far land deal—curdulose moon’s vastus diarrhea thought
Edgar’s arms came out of shirt like
puffs, Jen had the compactness of a mountain
the other / Zelda / was he describing his knowledge
of Singapore’s energy infrastructure, oil refineries and
his lips sealed the envelopes for the totalicapitalist state’s
sovereign wealth fund bumping teeth like blue flame
baby? O sad cavalier! In the rocker of the forest
you, landlord, imagine yourself its green slave, its chloro-phalli
blooming in your nose that chugs.
PLAYER 3
Cookie, cookie, cookie
PLAYER 1
Sucra-therms donk cold eve colono-star-scape
ding the blessing old walnut-pensive face, lips
folded in—he told me he touches himself way more, he
puts in play a narrative of our relations defined by
something that amounts to greasy spoon strip clubs, I
don’t want to touch the masculine secret fire we might
blow into words but I was there a
spongy wicket of geo-electric lurch
a stutter bug to show you blank soup
my baffled patchiness
you want constancy but all you get is the
container of syntax, its contents shaken loosely
but this holiday dinner isn’t a search engine
PLAYER 2
Stays ten days, will have to clean the
toilets, ask about hip exercises:
THIS IS MY
COLD PASTORAL
line of ice
in the flower month
the child wore
a vest of syrupy
metal so cold it made
their own fingers stiff
in the diamond month
the line of ice
the child’s feet
in fur to make
a circle but find
only uneven rim
around a spinning, folded nova
of pigment the remains
of life are crushed into
turtle shell star
deepest astringent blood
of the woods’ night
in the bleating month
blind stumbling night
night we woke in a strange
room and hold our arms out
we could not see them, they brush
surfaces, meet vacancy
in a strange house
in the blind stumbling night
line of ice
in the child month
PLAYER 4
Why doesn’t anyone agree? Why can’t they
get over it? This is how it is. There’s just
bad people. Move on, get up. Go home.
PLAYER 1
stenofraked and fruckstioned.
the gravy is erased, the night a palimpustule
of scoil. flow home, viagnome,
in a caterwauling sump of somnesia,
to slide into thickets of digilose, to groom
to Dis, to Mastchaot.
Pix
Thought of water
$1.09 @ Sheetz
#failure
chapped lips.
PLAYER 3
Bad belly, night belly, I am growing
poopie, poopie belly, bad night sheets
chewing me
