in five short bottom heavy parts

by Alexandra Lukens

Today is the temperature of our fever

We are made up of fitted-well qualities
Italicized colors that are softened by dirt
Often rotted by accident
I’d say the most of us have an expensive history
I know I am fearful you might recognize my misinformation
So it’s some sort of frightening rebel thing
When the quiet times explode into hysterics
We are not acquainted with the details
Unconcerned and naturalizing the cruelties
It’s more about balancing the nightmares and the surface
Drops of moments and scenes about dogs
Significance of glass and importance of metal
We tend to throw our weight to the sidewalk and the birds follow suit
Because we’re quite tired of being told it is impossible
To be loved and exposed at the same time
I’m unsure what you know of our condition
Or if we’ve suffered in the hurricane
It is just the mirror
A hole at the top of the world where we throw down the rope
In the big country of our small achievements
There at the front, where we spend our days
Hungry acts of renaming
Living, mostly incoming thrusts of smoke

Do you remember when we were neighbors and you had a lot of scabs on your face?

A crude warrant ran with the borderline across the thick of it
Honey multiplied over the sockets
your daughter dismissed a craft but below the juvenile foamed up a project.
pee bedridden wisp and assaulted, timetablish
vivaciousness refrigerating, mopped and then stacked
It all gets towed on the line without a detector
Her century gifted the best virtue but yours still inherits a soft molecule of debt
Your bullet breeds an equilibrium, the sort of toothiness that strains near the neck
Over here representatives used to complain about a storm, your pedant crushing the fountains
So that whatever injury was washed away at the entrance
Past an unstable leaflet and kept towing the line in with an inane symbolishness.
You have traded the economy speaks for a gentle array of symmetry people
each of them asked us again and again, Why won't that lady finger the atmosphere?
Our butch archaeological catnapping and the affectionate weightiness of board games and orchids
Our assault that awaits the museum and might pray to be bound by a footnote
What such predicaments of ambuscading anxiousness we find ourselves all over
Recalling passwords with the curtness of our damndest tugged struggles
But then we don’t worry because there is an acorn and it altogether discards the affair.

Use your face to fall onto the sidewalk


With several spins we have become a freezing committee.
The sort of grown historians that can charge the dot and then vanish
Remember how cold it got, how there was no disadvantage in the sound?
A competitive array praising the north, how every tutorial doomed a bird?
You likened it to a hypocrite airing an unaware project,
The slightest mystery advancing out of our teenaged spit.
The night stretched, you remember, and the east marched outward
on top of the genuine and unsuitable hopes of our insufficient unconscious.
The wandering human scores of temper and the sniff of
whatever revenge shouts below a spreading negative.
Our altogether lends to the imagination of our cathedral-like purges
Oh, how our lungs leapt above all the rose flowers
How your liver chewed hard on every lie.
Why can't the relief hesitate slowly instead of pacing back and forth and so quickly away?
Why can’t our guide be more than some unseen constraint flaming our infrastructure,
our commercial contrasts, our stumbly analogies?
Oh, we are such symmetrical morons birthing grief and structure beside a tactless road.
Pardon our towers and our billion decays and remember to count up your countries.

Massachusetts is no place for all this emotionalishness

Even in the milkiest snoozing, she’s eavesdropping on the academicians again
your girl retracts the small examiner; her socket clips the sink
and her legendary grandmother attends through a stolen glory hole.
Each collected work shies away under a fame; tinderbox decayed, dodged and matchless.
A fifty-cracked rock ever-ages around an arcane contest
and a crossing fiddle accustoms an accidental bubble and soonish all sails over.
Strangers rattle outside friends whistling strangers hanging postage all types of opposite the liquor
Concrete supposes the crown, concrete judges liquor, concrete humors liquor.
Underneath this festival fudges liquor.
Your homosexual language exaggerates the energy through all her traveling gold.
Her detector acts after your rope! Her censorship plagues your context!
Every tree alters the exceptional bark inside a teenager.
Your finger spreads a frightening card under her belt. The mud migrates.
Results of an emotional cough, her wish pumps against every calendar.
Her export buttons up your leadership. Her developer proceeds and processes.
A car resents a preview after some color analogy.
A handbook runs without its genius.
A college argues.

The collectively poor arrival of Rev. Ibraham Wilder and his suitors

I nearly forgot to tell you this entire time I thought your father was dead
Softly begging just don’t bleed over this edge
But it’s spilt out something so grotesque I had to congratulate you
Deep fisted wrist shaking as you turned and took the bearded preacher
Ringed his finger over mine May the best man win
I can see the dimensions and it’s making me nauseous
I think it reminded me of the first attempt at a kiss
When you lean in to moisten her upper lip for youself in preparation
but your pairs of glasses bump at the hinges
knock themselves to the floor in a fit of it, speaking thickly
to ask are you sure you’re alive?
and the other pair says Blame his angels and laboratories
that no man will come to walk in your father’s funeral procession
replaced by infants the size of your city