I am a house that you refuse to enter. Pipes aching in every color, walls that give at the slightest touch and china leaping from the cabinets smashing itself attacking itself have I mentioned I hate light touch? Why must you come so gingerly don’t you see the rest of
He took a socket wrench to her heart, released some valves, steam hissing a fit, changed her carburetor, removed the split gasket. She let him under her hood, but did not expect a modified engine with humongous exhaust pipes. The sudden shifts from overheated to air conditioned nauseated her
A door you could only enter once steel and shineless so many people had entered I saw some of them standing still and others pressing on (it opened to a bizarre expanse of wild, the further in the more strange and dangerous, everyday monsters turning before your eyes) like their
Gaze at the horizon where water and sky draw thin delineation that curves slight, highlighted by sunbeam askew, bouncing off atmosphere and water surface to create this mirror above. I shellac this gondola because the folks of Isle de Jean Charles deserve a ride, and I’ll dip my oar,
i step out of my well only to step into your well. stepping out of a microwell we step into a macrowell. we then witness people diving from macrowells to microwells too. the world is made of wells and we exist in wells within wells. there
She was waiting, like the drop at the end of the faucet. She couldn’t bring herself to look at it, to acknowledge what was right in front of her. More and more often, she found herself staring at something without recognizing it, without acknowledging it. It made it difficult to keep up the
This is my space to write what comes to me. What comes to me are memories. But what’s most important to understand about the Black memory and the Black mind is that when a movement begins, our lives are not brought to a dramatic halt which immediately morphs into an
please fold up your longings neatly,drawing the sleeves parallel and mirroredagainst the table of the body.Without them, you will not expire—the markets don’t want your soul,only your dry fingers,your palatable smile. The day before your flight,check in your love of open skyand the taste of bright dayson your spoiled-milk tongue.You
That morning the apparition retreated well before dawn. Giddens lay back and drifted for a while hoping for sleep. Furry luminescences clung to the venetian blinds like koalas, filled with (he imagined) hopeful awe over their drowsy human. Patiently Giddens took each one and returned it to the clock to
how I crawled beneath the under-eaves I am unraveling, and I need to be sewn up into grandma’s hand-embroidered farmhouse evening, into the threads along the beaten sulfur-stained couch, pilling open its gaping hole leaking Playboy magazines how I squeezed behind the armchair our pets were dragged down
