out of anger


but i air pocket when


broca waves ribbons of white clay

forming the words like kaolin deposits so
careless and wet. i can't keep the shape like a cold, shiny infant
like the window of this car pressed against my forehead. the heat signature
must feel

fevered like a fresh piss spot, i want, in winter sheets.

give this toddler a pulse; this
2005 cavalier.


traffic pulls backwards and cold
at the drawstring connected to my navel. so many wheels
scream maaaaaaama

child's play correlating to the population boom to

interstate 94 east. to
everything under thirty exploding from the earth
and teeth
as factories
spit out our toys like dandelion seeds
destined to choke out
the last plot of cemetry.

symmetry,
in infantile metal
and on seats of thread
i want

children with old people dolls

but most of all,



to see less children.