Thursday, December 15, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Reading words of someone else's is more like
remembering why your words turn a different way, sit different ways.
I pour the milk slowly onto the smooth floor,
just to feel myself do something wrong.
The pile of milk on the floor looks quite nice
settling into the concrete
I leave this milk and wait for the change
a still life
I am only recounting this from some critical
essay about the moment
The sun may bake this milk
in
to
caked on mess
Right now, it is meditative, and we all agree
While my hair falls into my face and sticks
between my lips, I gaze out at this spilt milk.
Everyone is crying, ears (tears) roll onto
yellow lighted bulbs, the creases in the tiles appear, and Ia la la la.
looking on to hot pink marks on white tiles on
walls.
We all smile through the hair in my face,
stringy and caught in milk
I have swam this
Those words are lingering with me, I have read
them beneath paintings and on glowing screen. Those words are quickly turned
over to mine. I begin to be more aggressive, more pointed. The milk trembles as
others walk towards this. This private moment you thought was, is not really at
all.
I read these other words out loud and I know
where they come from and they fall into milk.
The thick liquid stands steady and we hear each
other over the open ceiling. We are mad at each other, we are mad that we
cannot lay on top of one another.
Drowning something in milk seems alright right
now, not cruel
not innocent
just alright.
Friday, November 4, 2011
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