Carrie Lorig

s c a t t e r s t a t e

how low levelled is a crush on the inside of us. how lower gram. it is smearing late. it is e-lating on the web. press the button to provoke seed. open, open the crushed windows. there’s a juke waiting out there in dining area. and i will put a bit in and re dreaming. and re dreaming and i will. re dreaming and still. even when still. try to figure out the arms. leaking is all our arms flying in the ways. i’ve been collecting a hundred thousand spaces for it. space is juicy, juicy. and now, away from the wet language you are nothing but a tan line from looking. from looking at the fields with us arranged in the same places of each other. i page blood. that is too close to the beginning actually. all the words jump out of the water at the same time. they fall back down below with something new in their mouths. before the earth gives out, it lets a little. it’s in a tinfoil ball. you open it so many times, you are overwhelmed by the blur. unfold is the wrong arm ways. i peeled the hold. how did you begin actually? feverish. i was stuff with your mouth. last night, again my sleep moved around on me. every inside part of us knew i was a space between thin alarms but me. i am closed under now at the thought. the rain times us before it finds us. finds us a vein in us. what did i read to you? this is not the place where you can request copies. to do that you will need the building with no voice. nobody sees someone do this copy. everything put on top of the fire is quiet now. it’s been a heart on top of lives lately. it’s been lit from under a clear coat. i fit everything in but the arms. i feel ugly presses swallowing down tucked in under our room. i feel leaking all the time. i’ve shouted this a hundred more times with my mouth around. without warning, the sky turns towards more black than the rest of my mouth was combined. there are notes of crop and burn in the air. there are notes on the color of the dirt’s tights in the air. who picked these details out of their hooves? we’re listening back to the cheeks pressed against the land. you couldn’t pay me to be around this much crops. this much useful stalks. at the hardest part of this date i do good. we pitch at the roof. tear a hole in its cheek. now there are black spots in it. it went on without you for awhile. now, you are covered in air. you smell like space. the cattle crowd around you to eat it. the cattle say eating gush this color makes their red dance. they say let’s grind it up into a powder. they clap their hooves together and release you into a air. i wonder how things are deleted remotely. i wonder what this song is that the juice coming out of my ears is leaning a house. i wonder how despite me eating one at every opportunity while closing under i still do this. get me a face i touch my dark felt under. just pieces of it. nothing too soaking. every face has a sheet up. i looked up everything. i looked up everything tagged poetry sucks. i am because my little cows know me. i am because i’m going to stuff the land you were weight into me. me coats me with pain codes that could turn the electric fence lawn. and i’m up for just reading poems we like. and our voice doesn’t have to. it doesn’t have to husk hear or dead enough.

Carrie Lorig is on a bike or a blog in Minneapolis, MN. She is asking that blood have a sound. She is drunk texting the poets in other states.