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Chomp Channel

by: Amelia Foster

Am I too perhaps recipient of some chomp channel
when I close my eyes, roll back, let the dreams
roll in. Splayed or flayed. Choose your words
wisely. Elect not to chew/choose your words.
I too see THE WORDS IN THE AIR. I too need
a designed distinction. A place in the desert where
a culture of one. I wake five times the night over,
transmitting the chomp channel through my wholly
permeable and permeated skin/limbs/face.
The chomp channel is all over the cone of my throat.
The four cone/fired cone of my throat
makes me go to bed to dream IN ALL CAPS.
My mother, my godmother. Another night
singing salt songs, frothing at the pillow.
Am I too passive a recipient? Dialogue
download. Shut time. Shut down. Where
the feeling starts: brain stem. The
physical sensation of the emotion. Breathe
into. One time. Center of the throat.
Wild eye. IN ALL VOICES. I am a
permeable voice. I am lying still against my
brain stem. The taste of the desert gathered in my
line of teeth. My culture of one.
My line to fall down in. Birth to ditch. A long
walk. A slow mine. A coal fire. Terra-
cotta. The warm wet ditch of the earthenware.
Clay under my fingernails, my red palm.
The ditch of the basement. The warm rot of
the empty house. Smells like garbage in here/in
me. Smells like waste. A long sigh. The slow rot.
the PERMEABLE HOUSE speaks to me in
many voices. An aesthetic ring of nails.
A soft rind of rust. My skin welcomes
what the walls exhale. The wet rot. Into me.
Into hair and froth and piss. Ellipsis. The house is
pulled apart by her seams to let the rot back
IN/OUT. The rot is welcomed into my lungs.
The house is rot for my lungs and teeth. For
a long while now. A break in the swollen carpet.
A hole in the kitchen wall. For I lay me down to
steep and rot. The long line, the slow bone.