it’s like dissecting the pain beast and following it at the same time. this part is a body i’ve never heard of. this part is a body i’ve never heard an animal noise from. animals make noiseflowers, sweeter and tamer than any animal writing. animals make noiseanimals that eat spaces in the earth. animals make animal clowns that speak like the earth. i said this book of animal writing in order to find the hurricane sugars in the hooves of pain beasts. i eat the earth that hunches up into the soft spaces of their feet, the little hurricane lockets, and my body tightens and tightens with more parts. the pain beast munches bedroom dust out of my palms. the sounds of a record sand out its mouth. it paints the bone rise in the morning. its paints the need steamed around haunch colored blooms. the pain beast bursts out of the earth like a failure to speak spanish, hole, window propped open by you, mountain. it drops a potato in my palms. now everything makes a crack of water in the beach. i grew some space between my heart, an unending field noise. the pain beast eats the space between my heart and begins to speak foil map, a plane rewriting a word in the sky with sand, your back silence, the ink that was in the room with us. i rain the pain beast’s mouth with the skin on the shelf. we moo cry the moon deserts larger, brighter. the body of the moon hurts and makes an earth noise. the pickled glitter of it. the pain beast asked about its mane. the color of long litter pushed against the neck is? i took the land of its mane and i put it under the moon. the space between the moon grew as its haunches rose. the moon stopped speaking cloth vibrations in such size. it stopped speaking leaves arranged in the color of a hole. my mouth pickles the hurricanes until they are my hair. my mouth pickles the hurricanes until they are never your hair. it is not a mane, it is straps to bite down on. i’m sorry it hurts to know your parts are heard of. i heard you get up in the middle of the night and put the land there. i heard the skin on the bed move. i heard the space grow between your hand. the animal noise of it creaked and it gave me a scar like this. at night it reflects the light from your back. some of my hair is loose near my neck. i’ll let you know if i hear anything more from you. i’m sorry the pain beast makes people wear a hole in their pile of sticks. the pain beast makes me wear the shade of the sky overhead, where the last noise you made is buried around and around and around and around. the pain beast is more of a red stuck inside a drain than a reason a body would trouble the fields inside of it. the pain beast’s parts get up and move. there are so many pieces of land that need love and air. land that dissolved your noiseflowers into a fat has straps around based on your voice. nothing but nothing gets out. you are the closest thing to a word i think i can feel in my mouth. it moves with a part i don’t know the name for. blood with sound buried inside of it falls out of my ears and turns the faces the earth makes blue. it makes the pain beast rub its back in the sand because it is suddenly covered in bites from the word that used to be in the sky. the pain beast hides its parts inside of its blood. inside of the pain beast i found flat rocks arranging the water around them. i said this is not your part. we never gave you a part like that. does a word i haven’t used before say it that way? the moon deserts were scheduled to depart at the usual time. instead, they slap their cheeks with the ends of the earth to keep themselves and a hum in the sky.
Carrie Lorig lives in Minneapolis, MN. She has an orange bike for legs and a shattered cheek from all the poetry. Here is a blog.