for my brother
don’t read this part out loud though flightless.
catching the last train expressed the longitudinal wave of “I want to move backward.”
I think of my once lost brother, diagram 1 shows he does not Speak because he’s been ignored don’t read this part out loud air contains no elasticity They all tell me it is because he was too at pain with himself.
it is here. it delivers itself but should you like to build it steal pens from hotel lobby desks and drawers untouched bibles. throw these pens into bodies of water and listen to how they don’t sink. suicide is not its option. it does not crawl. it reaches into the unwarped cinema whose empty red chairs watch film after film unappreciated left for Netflix on the lap of a bruised comforter—it simultaneously watches and causes terry malloy strip bare the meaning of regretting. it is here in the lap of a new kind of alice, (NKA) tumbling—she plays with rabbits: it rasps on rabbits’ ears. she drinks with ghosts in ribbons: it is the ribbons. she finds comfort in its old cinema expires on its one red chair and fades it like a poem with margin notes that read [don’t read this part] [will you read this part?] every time she tries at laughing. she with the brother who never calls anymore. she with the mother who never stops calling to never listen.
and it gets tired. it goes back.
it does just what it pleases
to let the pictures play.