Arlene Ang
analysis of shipwreck

the dead spitting up the future
the dead recurrent in seated positions

heads tilt toward
                                                        the music sheets on the chandelier

attached to the cello
a hand a leg & blue-bottle light from windows

hypothesis:                                        the distribution of the dead
                                     depends primarily on their correct simulation
                   of seaweed & lovemaking

the body is held together
                   by an intricate web of skin particulates

discussion points—

         (1) what are the habits of the dead?

         (2) do the dead follow the insomnia of their constituents?

         (3) who are the dead in relation to what is unknown about them?

                                                                 there’s a mother to all this
arranging her red hair over the knife wounds in her body

fish eating the eyes of the dead
recurrent hunger in all physical things that are undead

obiter dictum:                 when the dead walk
                                     their left shoulder is slightly higher than the right
                   their left elbow is raised

                                                as if in drink

Laura McCullough
Button

His hands felt like paws or flippers, big and inarticulate, as if the spaces between shoulder socket and elbow joint and between the finger bones had all fused in the August sun, a kind of annealing, so what had once been uncured now had been except that mobility and utility had been replaced with one function, appendages for show,

and this is what he sees now when he looks in the mirror, a created thing, a ceramic puppet whose arms stand like glass stems, whose hands burst flower-like from the tips.

If he waits long enough, perhaps he will be visited by bees, but for now, it is only ghosts, the children he hears splashing behind him as he retrieves his tilting guitar.

If you meet Buddha on the street, kill him, he recalls some saying once. He thinks a fly has landed on his chest and brushes it away, but it is nothing but a fleck of thread sticking out of a button head come suddenly loose.