That’s not translatable. It comes in
partially loaded, broken down like
slush/snow stars of binary
and nonlinguistic cubes.
Code corrupted to the point
that there’s a look of natural rashes.
Lobster colored
read… errors.
The flitter of failing
and the final blackness.

Like a crop of shabby, mop weighted corn,
risen to be battered by
someone angry about boredom and
abundance.
Like dime or nickel buckshot
to shred the person you love to
a loose net that will not hold life.

Cratered, too open moon face
picked at with Latin phrase
A constant subject
nakedly rounding
How many punitive finger lengths
into resented night for wasted
day?
That paste-up
added
expectedly
in good evenings and
bad evenings

Mitering vine growth
Vessels caption angry
arms
whatever hit being
the actual dot of the
exclamation
Crescendoed violence —
the reaction of
horrified will to
the hint that
Fate’s hand isn’t
cuddling but capturing

I have to take them all with me
as those picture cards —
tiny bios
and their real person that
blooms out inside of me
when I remember them.