the B spot

here, it’s a stream of intake – words that are not language but sequential metaphors for things which lack – and it’s not something the trees can blow back into the nook of your lobe – but the images hang – inscribed by plight andor awe that takes us andor tiny monsters with inkjet fingers andor seeing the stereotype that kills you andor casting lines, setting traps, swinging with intention andor taking back the sense of agency andor throwing ourselves at one another until we crash like fusion fish in a bowl andor etching our names - contextualized - into history andor finding the smoothness that lets us be andor waking up and writing it down