i am translation of warehouse. the maim cattle are fat envelope shapes. all envelopes are warehouse too. a different way to the same heavies brought a tangled shudder to big builds. any partner skin i encounter is syllable full, wordwater. you’re right, i can be funny wet. my sides are brokens glancing up, one knucklebone in a burst hoof. i draw a little animal on our foreheads. the color is wearing juice, but why outloud them to myself? this is hard to draw from memory. this is heal too hard. this doesn’t look like a cow at all. i can’t go on. there are lines, there are darker trees that are the right height to sleep next to me. i can’t, but i goon. my letter is titled, “crashmelt,” and it reads like a whole shaved thing. one day was so bright and wearing hospital scrubs. i was opening a bottle on the street to taste it. a bit of bird carbonation went on about being punished with straps, mumbling tumors, mercy. all the ways they’ve told you to cheap your food down are cow shit. you’ve got a heart to keep awake. you can turn up the volume, but the static hasn’t attached itself yet. it becomes a flock on the way out. i open my mouth. “all metal with the dump glowing,” you say, looking in. i think i still see the envelopes i’ve sent around. there’s one spilling lunch. i taste them when fluorescence is chewed at a party close to me. i see them around, looking for the thin crust shifts of my jaw but just barely where. “maybe you have something,” you say, looking in. what’s tilting back is the first south facing layer of the year. the first without coat of the creatures. parts were gone because our dry didn’t punctuate. i am a little vile left and it gives me a part, a jar. i come at the pasture through short cuts. “maybe i do,” i say. this portion thinks that lines are going through unearthing love all the time. does that convince you of something nice and used cup about me? that something buried alive is under my neckline? turns out it is just a different person with cloth cuts like mine. we splotched can be a similar low did person, a blow did person. come learn how to grab a few before slamming it shut quick and going back out to the front of the house. what is swinging from your drop? you left it open and now you are hauling wane, even by its joints, inside my cheek. muscle clouds float by. i have completely taken lawns to get back to you i know. it’s just that the envelope looks like muscle clouds to me sometimes. against it, it looks like we’re hard at pushing. it can get all thin mall seams for us. i build out, get my brightness sore. i just mouthed fuck all the way down the page. that’s a large mouth, population: cows. “split as split, jaw as stone,” i said in my warehouse made out to blank. sorry, i popped out for a minute. so much is coming to me. we were standing with our sides out, shaking our lock moves. terror rhythm, are you still okay if i kiss it noise as i want? when your mouth is sad, make it the sweat lodge out there. make it slam ache ruts while the loving heads are dripping back. a few sounds will creep up like a picture sliding and knucking bone, a few sounds like functioning insides being needing come out swinging holes. then it’ll be fine. it’ll be fine and the softest jumbotron close up on your very good group of landscrape will flash across whatever surface. little flaps, they are having a moment that will mean carrying so much to us.
Carrie Lorig lives in the cold part of Minneapolis, MN. She believes in wonder and pain holding flowers and in the red of Gertrude Stein's ribs. She has poems and essays in places across the internet. A collaborative chapbook of poems written w/Nick Sturm, Nancy and The Dutch, is available through NAP magazine.