You ask why & how this state is like a load-bearing slice of spiced ham, well, here the headless gesture & the viral drama attract the eye, here the same silly sun as last year leaps into the Chuck E Cheese ballpit. About moonrise, you see, the best dancers don’t need feet, as in, I have made my accent beefier. That’s a load-bearing wall—it’s all I have the time to love. One can still see one’s farewells on the terrace, in the dark, writ wide with fetal alcohol syndrome. That ballpit is nonstop. That ballpit’s like a touchstone. And then a little later someone vomits & it smells like tomato soup. Everything I do in Washington is to keep you on my tongue hours after wrapping fog-parts in old sacks. It’s a peacock stance, getting more coastal by the day—beauty gets less beautiful when nostalgia sets a product price.

West Virginia

The state motto of West Virginia is West Virginia Rules.

Whoa! How Joey Lawrence Said But No Longer Says Whoa!

The problem is you get acclaimed & welcomed when what you want is wilderness. I don’t like darkness or plaid shirts or how I don’t like Kerouac. Come here & sit on my face, a plate of mac & cheese. One more order of popcorn shrimp. One more batch of handwriting to decipher. Nothing could be more refreshing. I say Whoa! for four months’ notes & pixelated Hades, contestant movement inside stillness. And when I say Whoa! how Joey Lawrence said but no longer says Whoa! it is not so much a question as an old man in a temple watching the game on TV. This is not so much a question as a dentist. Not so much a question as a frenching, the spun sound of a yarn bag chugged in silence. All these voters are coughing too loud today. Not a question as much as a pixel pretending humanity. Bodies intertwine in the lens’ slack focus, as if the surface is not itself an emotion. Joey Lawrence saying Whoa!, the white that makes all else blue: if sound were normal you would not feel pain.


Is it too obvious to say Use Your Illusion would’ve made a kickass lady? Winter makes minimalism looks like a wrist. It has one body & every citizen lives it like a biography written in chalk. Diagnosed as a nickel, Winter takes weeks to corrode. Burrowed into a French fry, spoors & liquid eyes. Like looking at a friend’s piece of egg on a lip. A universe of expanding armchairs. A smartbomb wed to an antelope. A basket of wrenches. Go lie down on the white bed before the greenscreen, as lonely as a parking garage. Who can say what the sun illuminates on such a sun-bunted day as this when there’s nothing left to fuck but empty instant mashed potatoes boxes, light just a set of initials, everyone sleeping in their escape pods, waiting for any alarm? Winter’s better days are dead. Each stink greets a new horse & nothing is more life affirming in Winter than a turtle, yet sometimes Winter is a transitive verb. Fun Dip pouches on every night table, pages of bibles ripped out & used as terms, we need a computer as stupid as the state we live in & we need this computer to break every day. Only then could the bricks that hold our houses up be as breath-uponable as ash. What one loves in Winter is very dumb.


Case in point: AC/DC’s “Who Made Who.” But every part of Wisconsin is white. It is alphabetical, left of broken things. Noon was sinister, like this needle in this meatball. I keep cracking open hard-boiled eggs only to find idealist realism. In Wisconsin a speaking act is a conjuring, an object of the Icarus industry. If milk exists—we will exist. If there is a riddle I’m calling shotgun. We can help six percent, but how many will still die? The beauty of the folders takes precedence over what they contain. In Wisconsin I love to mispronounce my name to myself. Some time ago, two or four years ago, I stopped being a flautist.


In Witness every yawn’s a little brain death, every Amazon order comes with a half-sack of wings. In Witness you can be the Orkin man of your own dreams. You can be whatever fits inside a bankers box. On the highway each car enters a darkness fit for it: an act of kindness, a broken face the color of twos. Every now & then in Witness you must poke a man with man-arms. You must testify. Witness is known as the burning biplane state. Houses tilt like a finger up-the-nose to the knuckle. Witnessites know the Dolly Parton song “I Will Always Love You” as “I Will Always Love Your Sponge.” What we know as How I Met Your Mother they know as Everyone Loves Raymond. In Witness sometimes we return from the grave with an unstable derision & spell out those words we don’t want to understand, return as some still-menthol-smelling dipspit circling a drain, robotripping with an orca, listening to EPMD in a VW before choir with your dad’s old fuckbuddy, but TV has gotten so good these days there’s no reason to even suture a sucking chest wound.


Nothing can be said about a body that cannot be said about Wyoming—gallbladder, cystic duct, hepatic vein—no two livers leave a world alike. Picture a black six. A black one. Red six. Meat one. Varicose sky daily dries Wyoming & each night soaks it in spit. Every good-enough sunrise & every period sunrise, these are the pain Wyoming bears. Come serpents. Come vestments. Come humans in limp. Pave the city with t-shirts & pills. It’s sweater-weather here in primitive belief, the googly eyes on the wizard bong, no-water that I really am. Emotion is both object & production. The sex-drive of Wyoming in Oakleys & supplements, the endless inverted Enlightenment, the slam-into-a-wall of the sky, if beauty is found it is not experienced so much as a slot. It’s enough to make you milk a wire.