JESSICA COMOLA

I take stock of myself. I take stock of my spoils.
I just got a touch, mamma.
I just want your old gut chickering.

I represent a single particle shown as though standing on a small bit of raised ground, as though something has passed before my face, and as though all my hair has stood up on end and moved in whatever direction I moved while repeating the line: I shall come back but you shall never—

This process continues until matter expands to zero.

I came out of a swatter hollow.
Came to like a composite of angels and like a composite of angels I have a bikini wax and a half-cured antibiotic infection.

I eat root tufts. If not I, my black rare royal teeth.
If not black in the fingernails, I am a black-named pathogen.

I have forgotten how to have magic as certain persons who have projected into the atmosphere have forgotten magic.

My chide-a-rounds are kept out of reach and hooked sick. I can hear them.

Cough. Done. Double a voyb boing, undone. And all their holes making sauce along the small walls.

All of them down to the last.

In Forty Questions on the Soul the Soul is first asked to draw a triangle in such a way that its points pierce each prime coordinate of the planet.

Navvy Christ’s Dozen court these points which froth at each tip, the spume of which reveals unto them each of the 7,500 named parts of Christ’s body following in continuity from the subcellular to the whole of the organism.

The aerend-gast is surely a vitreous floater.

Surely he floated into the presence of us and was as suddenly borne away to be henceforth the coveted object of human endeavor.

Surely the back of the Spookhaus is vug of great greasy lustre.

On coming gently into contact with excited body a, a gloss is instantaneously made, as delineated by several waxy lights, and conjoins to an asterism, or star-shaped lumination.

From my centrum branch the thirty-three limbs of Christ. Around my eyes are triangles of fire, but this is a feature we all have.

My sword underwent a phase change: from the hilt of my sword a plasma extended, which was never-ceasing but disappeared in the instant it came into contact with other matter, much like the sun is a star in the state of my sword.

Surely when one eye looks into the other the suprasensual life is born in the doubling of images, in the binate-ghosts of matter.

Our errand-ghost is a lambkin knelt with his flag held taught between his teeth; its hem just spooks the surface of us.

Surely we know him in the whet of the Glories.

While in some legends I am so embedded as to be out of reach, often I am between a chimerical vapour and a Soul.

Often the Soul is later asked if would not please draw for us a stumble-block so that we may cross it and bless ourselves thenceforward.

Bio palace: I’m parts unlimited.
I’m a stone fox with x-inch rims and a Cuban alligator.
I replace my cells every seven years. How very.
We’re now, if you want us, watching men’s suite mini sports.

Bing bong’s a group effort out by the collie’s nose software.
My collie’s love is famous for its supplements.

This is a giftwrap genie of immaculate detestable body spong for your soft sake, for your twilight debussy, for your free clairvoyant readings, for your fine white leather, for fine white-leather teeth, for your bleached digitech, for your swank razors, for your cordless organ donations, for your nekromantic daddy needs to know, needs to know the disney hours, the famous folk from france, how to get that puf body glo into his baby.

This is premium. Pad accuracy with broad wartime ax fica collective recipe.
Plus forum. Plus theoretical demanding terminal dillemas.

I can offer a mock cost per square foot. I can enter wherever you’d like me however you’d like me to look.

The most effective way to marry me is a bass whammy. The most efficient ring is in a basement ceiling of brownish portshead where it is said noboy loves me.

More than a year later and I’m still in, I mean I’m wholehearted, because perhaps I’m more of a spontaneous emergence—I do squirt and squirm and need not remember if I act surprised equally by each new thing. A rock is a kind of surprise in that we find a solution for it by only looking at it once. And yet it moves when we don’t look. Und yet come aquatiny worms that come us from. These are kind of skerries that broom me along from ^#1knit to ^#2form to ^#3come I—I thought of home and saw myself in the mirror of a tall stockpot: I was elong and I stood at odds licking salt from the steep, faulty clot of a rock. There’s a great meat lying long at the edge of the beach and it lolls me with its great wide eye and there is instinct and there is reason and the future is certain and lovable (it’s not like it is the whole time, it’s more like how it seems to be) how I fold it into the small of my memory is mine if I want it mine.

Jessica Comola co-hosts the Trobar Ric Reading Series from Oxford, MS. Her chapbook, What Kind of Howly Divine, came out from Horseless Press in 2014. Other recent work has appeared in jubilat, Caketrain, Smoking Glue Gun and Tenderloin.