Mooncusser

I rip everything up from the last bed to sort. Milkweed and wool fibers. Till it deep. At least six inches. The muscle spasms crank on. Blood opens a channel into earth. Beetroot or collard. Teeth on clay thighs and this movement I have learned. I have learned. I slip myself beneath a warm or benevolent or sad old mooncusser. I have learned. I slip myself into the little mound and wait.

Infinite Disposal

According to the theory of infinite disposal, I’m placing miniature coffins onto the conveyer belt. They’re beautiful, the size of butter dishes. I’m placing them by weight so that when the bagger fills up the bags the most delicate ones are on top. Or another way of explaining the same feeling, look up at the unending moat of peaches. Each of them composed of flesh and a pit.

Moss Mill

We are all living above our own moss mills. Beneath every step is a record. There are several doors, all leading back to the same underground room packed with rusty equipment. There is no moment when I first became aware of the moss mill. It moved beneath me like a current, like a mirror that reflects light into the dark. If I am awake I pay no attention, which should worry me but doesn’t. When I start to drift off I suddenly remember with a distorted sense of urgency, my moss mill is filling up, my moss mill is slowing down. I pack boxes of mildewed documents. Stuff worn clothes into paper bags. When I climb down the steep wooden steps into the mist I find that my moss mill is mostly full. I can’t even reach the bottom of the stairs. Instead, I take the boxes and shove them as hard as I can along the top of some other boxes.

Everything I have ever consumed or touched is here. Ours aren’t connected, everyone’s moss mill is unto itself. I began moving underground in the absence of touch. One thought pearls up and I skim it off. I have never wanted to be the understory. I have always wanted to be in excess. I have always wanted to be an absence of touch. I have always wanted to be churning. I have never wanted to be absence. Gray-green brush. I have always wanted to have. I have always wanted. I have always downy mildew thought wanted I have never wanted always here I have always wanted in the dark.