Maker
56 M a k e r o Maker (& by Maker perhaps i mean whatever scotch my father could afford in May of 1985), take me in your endless mouth, mouth, repeat me like a name until i lose all meaning. i make war on the one-hit wonder underneath my skin, feed me to the forgetful mouth, mouth of the freezer. rein -carnate the mixtape of me into sweet digital, that final razor-proof ontology, no cut & fade, no hand on vinyl, no meat on the bones or bone. The day my father died, the lake was as hard as any kid on my block (o cold folding knife blade against palm), so i made the rank of mallard & migrated. Fallacy is the mistake i live by, the pathetic worship of the porch (that opened mouth at night). Let’s try to make out the code of car alarms by breaking each other’s blood vessels, listening for rasp & pattern. Without mouth, the body is 57 a closed-circuit. Without meat, i eat only microphone & make only sad boom bap -less sex. o Maker, beat me like you were a blacksmith & let me glow. ...
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