I

there are things i won’t be saying things that will

never have a place to land to take root

& this is fine or if not fine, then at least acknowledged

it isn’t the seed’s affair what the soil consists of & ice is not earth

oil is not earth or steel beams rusted

& the imaginary hand that holds this pen

to you is a certain & definite hand yet it hardly exists

at all you think an i is one thing all the time

that an i is also a mine & a history that never changes

there is a grove of trees all called i continually falling

& sprouting up

i is a long con a failed tree farm bought up as

a tax dodge & left to crowd itself to death

make a wish

ice beats in the body a blood that

can’t sustain or nourish carrying nothing

but threat & information all blood is

information but ice is just a scam of epic

takedown a ponzi theory of wellness

sublimation leaves a scum of soot & chemical

seasoning the veins are brittle with additives

lay a hand on my arm & it rings like the base

of a streetlamp tapped by a socket wrench

i open my mouth & a cloud of lottery tickets

swirls out around my head make a wish

little one little asphalt bone make a wish