WEBVTT

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Day Three.

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A metaphor exists in your place.

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Thinking of Rosa and
Rosa on the tiny plane

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flying over Ferguson.

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The Midwest generalizing
bumpy clouds.

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IPad.

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I nausea.

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I vomit.

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A white woman throwing up in
the seat 9A into the paper bag.

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A metaphor exists in motion.

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No one could help
her as she vomited.

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We all just sat there helpless.

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My wife of decomposers
has brown skin.

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She visits me among the forms.

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Lichen says accept what
is and break it down.

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I sought my soul among the
books and he was reading.

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In summers beside, they abide.

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They sit-in yards and
rooms listening to words.

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They smoke hand-rolled
organic weeds.

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Wildly gesturing they take the
grief smoke into their bodies.

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The revolution isn't coming
very fast, they breathe.

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Here are the durable
goods online,

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our phones made by slaves,
our satchels made of soft cow.

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During they can't
stand it how to live.

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Skin in the yards.

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Life forms.

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Species on stucco and bark.

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Lobes on fences
like old sentences.

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Shield and speckled
breaking down progress,

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breaking down holes
of ships at port.

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Near tiny foxes in the woods.

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Passing through the organisms
breaking things down.

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Flavopunctelia in
the lacerated dusk.

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Oh, worlds that are and aren't,
that is and isn't a metaphor.

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