B:
the countryside in me was lonely and idealistic
abandoned rollercoasters stretching out for miles
empty barns and high horses
hearses towing (broke-down) hearses and smart hurt(s)
verses vs verses in gun font
numb blunted off dull stunted sullen presumptions


J: (in tandem w/B):
The things i’m told to fear:

Sex
Men
Disease
Having no job
Bleaching my hair
not birthing before my body is dry
god
sickness
death
jealousy
war
pride
cars on the road
aloneness
toxic overdosing
holes in my head
violent acts
strangers
addiction
alternative religion
alleyways
identity theft
loss of my parents
low income housing
loss of things of value
nursing homes
cesarian section
walking around with a diamond on
self serving behavior
talking too loud
being in a big crowd
getting abducted
getting arrested
getting caught outside too late
sudden loss of faith
speaking against the state
debt
loans
authority
drones
not making enough
psychosis
infection
hurting my reputation
growing too old
burning the house down

mercury
tectonic subduction
ingestion of poison
carbon monoxide poison
polyvinyl chloride poison
liver failure
becoming a burden
forgetting your family
forgetting the stove’s on
burning the house down

B: (in tandem w/ J):
assume was uniform, rehearsal was for real, prop sawed off applause gun, phantom sadness, i feel it even when it’s not there, the mess we’ve made, and the broom to sweep us off our feet,
sterile get-up, hygienic slap, bash-ful futility belt, saggy breathe,
i attempt to let my hog-tied tongue catch the buffet of words always running out of an open field and into a thicket of open arms and upturned spoons like a tight forest is dark before dusk, like a meal in a covered plate, i wait, for the woods that sit along the edge of our game like coaches and players, to call me in or throw me out

sick get-up

B:
i folded this letter into a paper airplane, a brick from a building, (a window made of bottle glass), a spitball on fire, a siren to slow down head traffic and echo on through the streets the blood was red tape   shit shovel and formal workboot
the sewer in me was ball room    and lonely
J:
we feel these things and are born by them
these stories we tell ourselves
are all the same
floating above body
grasping the edge of reason
reaching for the shadow
we know we fear this moment