“I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry.”

When daddy slaps the water, baby laughs. Stocks split the gods from their stormdoors. Your necessary warnings, my beauty, are an occupiable space, a storage place about the body an hour before bed. The hero’s tongue is also a sunflower. Which drives like a Nyquil buckboard, a fractal beauty product, a Charles Bernstein poem called “Strike!”, a Bichon Frise. Knit. Sock. Love. “Under ciliated moon shake off floatings / Of soap; strike code on oxidised zinc.” My beauty is an MGTC. Questions evaporate off the pavement. Lines enfolded into lines cause social change. I could never be publicly intelligent for that long, your dailiness assemblage. When I hear “aesthetics” I reach for my body. My beauty isn’t a beauty thing. Affects happen in public. Jenner just puked up a leaf. Etruscan ethics, an eternity of ambiguous belief, light propagates in zones outside the body. Bunnies in the ethereum. Bride analyzer, an internal decor, dialectical behavior therapy. Can you see our dialogue boxes in the dark? If I leverage myself under the vinyl into the gondola with the mud/turf roof.