for Lindsay

RON PAUL: These vascular fantasies. Drinking myself as a dolphin, the Good Lord took her low bodice and froze in place. Placards nurse maps you can fumingly scribble on the room, or they may lay down beautiful without sweat-pants on at last, overflowing displacement. Most of all, all of us give in.

NEWT GINGRICH: On just such a day I crumble as she murmurs to the modem, on just such a day as you as well as you act right, play favorites with venison and a lean or high strung flavor, on pills bored with silence, just chilled on just so-and-so day, as the story was.

RICK SANTORUM: Eat mostly fruit and nuts.

MITT ROMNEY: My stomach is just a little bit upset. I was a little blind I guess. Something has to happen to him–it could be a big thing or a little thing. Tied cloth around an interrupted trunk–what does it mean?

NEWT GINGRICH: It’s certainly not the kind of letter a married woman receives from a casual acquaintance. I’m sure this neglect is unintentional.

MITT ROMNEY: The squid the squaw the lid, once, the pill the shrimp the spit, again, ripped.

RON PAUL: Interesting. Federal leaves leaking atop one another’s bodies, the have-nots, half anvil half fruits and nuts. I crumble as she murmurs to the modern. I have given up counting.

I’m spitting the smoke out in front of me. It makes a trail in cold air. Marked differences fiddle with your knobs and gnarled woods burl up toward the sun, the sunny day that vanquished me, your skewed root with skill and illness. A skull fruit of boiling needles boring relentlessly with vacation slides, that two week dying that took only seven days until. I’m splitting a stroke out upon the lonely waves. It makes a tail on you in ruddy thaw times, and the time before that you’re restlessly rubbing me down there, there’s no way to copy.

Hairy wooden box, leprechaun, hairy wooden honorable and hairy wooden clack shut. Ash hung pants eventually, they said in one dream, but in quite another it took seven days, we boiled it up to the sun. And here back now stalling just where one month where one month should hum along, but don’t. Touch that dial, it’s got. Dick on his picture of motorcycles sits and listens to worship rowing flowers across the roll in the dark. The ridge.

A goddamned crying shame call.

I roll I roll, row the flow over your soul your “soul,” I roll role roll like a mighty behavior or motion, like the surface of something essential to you, so much so you barely remember it. You remember that blue dumpster outside of Lakeview Elementary School, don’t you? Your father must wander near it forever.

My black shirt accrues
a layer of lost cat hair–
we make a snowman

***

You want to smoke when
the baby’s asleep–tuck doors
and step like heart beats

***

Do you remember
not thinking about yourself
and walking upright

Cold covers our lulls
with quickened fingers–hot noise
quivers underfoot

***

These days I can twirl
air around my breath in order
to arrange your dreams

***

I still remember
how your flowers wounded
the air around us

***

But how delicate
your eyelids unfurl like tart
lavender brushes

***

Rolling on the bed
you bite me when the waves
close over our mouths

Windows blacked out by
overnight snow tap their way
across the white hills

***

There’s something dark and
pagan in that chemical–
juices from red meat

***

Waited where the trees
stain themselves with cold white moss
–immeasurable