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
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
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