Why I Am Not A Painter
A l l C o n t e n t ©2005-2021 E m i l i e H a n s o n e-mail
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Minneapolis, MN links & archives
a pile of mostly raw and probably bad poetry
on the internet
in the hopes of creating something better
This blog is not CLEAN and is not meant to be.
Useful critique appreciated, i.e. specific comments and suggestions.
You need not identify yourself unless you want to;
comments will be judged on value, not the source. (Although knowing the source can be useful.)
Unsupported heckling OR praise are not appreciated.
Also, I vaguely apologize if you're my friend and you see yourself or others we know here.
I am aware that that can be unsettling
but that's the risk you run being friends with a writer. Also,
maybe you're just being paranoid. Also,
there is never a clear picture of reality
nightfall
i cannot keep
up with these stops
and starts when
the body needs
rest. the baby
teeters on the edge
of sleep, needing
comfort, milk,
from me. the partner
snores a-rhythmically,
holds me when i come
towards him but hard
to wake. the humidifier
is almost out
of water, sputtering on
and off, the motor
interrupting my attempts
at unconsciousness. the questions
from extended family i cannot
answer extensively enough
to belay this guilt. you
have given me humor
and poetry, music and this
tall forehead, and you
are almost out
of life, sputtering,
snoring, teetering and
stopping. i try
to feel less
awake. it is not quite
dawn and i am
surrounded, alone
the heart feels stops
and starts, jerking
like a car with new brakes,
that wants to go
forward but hits all the
red lights. the feeling stops
if my eyes close. I fall
asleep beside piles of picture
books, I wish I were
strong
and awake, I wish I were
a child
with potential. Medication is
not enough. I don't know anyone
who has died yet
but it's bound up in the
fates: it's going to happen. I
want to go
bad thoughts
you set your mind to
anything but
someone let the cap
off this insulation
foam, it's blood
in my brain, i
wish i could control
these emotions
you are expanding
like space
between stars
are you big
enough to drift
away, am i
small enough
to sink through
cell walls
i wish thoughts
were like matter
i could conserve
but you just keep
coming and going while
always being here
Labels: G
Mars
are not. how close i am to you;
i am not. you're my best friend i'm
a stranger
the planet is covered in astroturf
and this feels real to me. when i ask
is anything real, how right are you
saying act
like it is? how close am i to you;
am i not? you're my water brother i'm
wanting
we are surrounded by intelligent
conversation. when i ask can i share
what feels real, how right are you
saying no
On Androids
In love at
A robot, his circuits
Unwanting, unable
To process
Emotion
You try and touch
Like a rat
Receive shocks
But love is
Not learning. Love
Is not logical
And this robot
Is beautiful,
More precious
Than flesh or
Self, and you think
You are a scientist
You have training
You have wits
You have will
You can make this
Emotion chip.
You have delusion
You have love and
You have lost your mind,
You genius.
untitled inspired by body spasms, thoughts, and taylor swift's "treacherous"
Labels: G
old poems
chosen poorly: the past
full of maybes and mights,
could-be wholes, could-be
futures. pronouns and adverbs hiding
from the concrete. nothing behind me
has certainty. so do i question
now --
why i feel safe, the nose
dive into someone endless,
these feelings, they don't
hit bottom?
No.
love me (unfinished I'm falling asleep)
that's alright because
it needs to be. i need
to be enough. i know you
don't think of yourself
now, but of who you want
to be: good enough for
someone special, whole
enough to take pride in.
you see the me i keep
away from other eyes
and it makes you think
i am not functional, i am
not independent, self
confident and I think
you are wrong. I love
arguing with you. I love
trying to make you see
things you don't see. I love
how I hear your voice
and in the night it wakes me.
I love you in these
normal ways, but even more
if I could
Labels: G
the Doctor's wife (possibly incomplete)
and my eyes widened, knowing
what you meant, how
you receive words I say
we communicate, not
like telepaths but people,
people who speak
a common tongue
it is the first time I've spoken
and been understood. It is
the first time I've heard
what others say, translated:
these other humans, they
speak a language using words
we use in ours, and I know
now it is different
Labels: G
Unrequited
Is the sickness
Labels: G
bullshit thing 2
inside ambient music
these thoughts are incorrect and i
have faith in the logic
of facts. you don't
want the things i want inside
this body, things i find impossible
to quantify. i don't understand
how anyone ever receives or transmits information
about these fucking emotions.
these fucking emotions aren't fluent
in spoken language. i communicate
now through laughter and the hand
i want to touch your wrist, pass through
pain and memory to now, this infinity
Labels: G
untitled poem of stupidface to get back to writing
listened, your thoughts
are like my thoughts
but not my thoughts
it makes me want
to touch you, feel
pieces of you i feel
you might feel but
are not your feelings
placing the atoms
which compose you next
to mine, i can hear them
or maybe it is my heart
humming or maybe
i don't understand what
i'm listening for
Labels: G
support structures
untitled, incomplete?
Labels: marvel
can you be anything / but weapon x
Labels: marvel
is knowing familiar?
TARDIS
capture
saw
a dead bird, was
disappointed
my camera was
at home. how else
can i see
that flying, feral thing?
quick date
I met Barry Allen
for martinis. He was a moment
-ary distraction from the mundane
lethargy of life: a blink
and then drinks.
We talked about work,
my collection of bones.
"I'm the fastest
man on Earth," he claimed,
like I hadn't heard that
one before. Just like that
he was out the door; I hadn't
even the time
to consider him, no flash
of insight into the future.
Labels: dc
pow
the word "interesting" has become
vague like "things" and I use it
the way you do, often, and then worry
"Am I not thinking? Am I not engaging
in this moment? Am I forgetting to live
without boundaries? Am I boring?"
but what is "boring"? Boring is
the same as "interesting" these days,
that is to say, filler for the space
fear has made in my mind, and
I'm not particularly interested in
"interesting" "things," have finally
realized if life is a comic book
it's okay to read it; it was written to be read.
tattoo
can brand you in, inject
like sex, can change
genetics, but
I think about it. Where
I will put you and how I will feel
you under my skin, after
the skin has healed. I want
to pay for scarring, Love, save
my breath, my money, my pain
for a statement: you are
with me always. Symbolism
is alive in image, text, flesh--
for many people, wedding rings--
how else can I say I give consent
and this is a brand? I'm yours.
incorrect insecure feminine thought loop
I keep being mistaken
for someone
with more than
purpose. follow-
through, breathing out
and not just in
love. you tell me
listening
is different than what I'm doing. Listening
is something I need to learn like
other social skills: don't think
too much about it. Unfortunately my head
thinks a lot of myself.
example. I pass
people who consider themselves
and I consider them
friends;
I am wearing a bathing suit.
They say, Enjoy swimming!
I say, startled, I need
to clean. Is consideration like listening?
Is consideration not explaining my madness?
Is that my largest expression of love, can it
be even
when it is my default response
to fear? Yes. The difference is
in what I want to say
to you: everything, and if
I can hold my tongue maybe
I can hold you
female concerns
I'm in the big body, but
there are no classes with
low-quality 1980s video
to show me how to sever
the drawstring up
inside my body
(someone is supposed to pull
it and I'll "orgasm," my heart
will be pulled out and
I'll make a noise)
from my emotions, which
are wound
like a spool of thread, which
looks neat --
yet turn it over in your hands:
turn it, keep looking
for the end! I worry I'm wrapped
up in myself. I want
the art of solitude
is noisy at times,
the sound of moving
furniture, an unexpected
piece of glassware
tinging under your touch.
the television never
seems loud enough
to hear - if moving
from room to room, those
scripted voices
must follow, lest your mind
start speaking
to fill the space
of where your company was
fall
It's hard to live, imagining
I know what you want, feeling
like a quiver-
ing leaf to your tree;
shaking, shaking, shaking,
knowing
the stem which connects us
allows the light in, that
needed nutrition between
us. It's hard to live, a part
of this community of shaking, shaking,
shaking, knowing I'm connected
to everyone through you. That life
cycles call me and say
let go. That it feels deathly to change.
I wish I were sane
enough
to explain feelings;
sexy enough
to hold you
with my eyes;
strong
enough
to keep
from crying. I wish
I never made wishes:
wishes are for us
who don't try.
Breathing feels sometimes
like climbing
into high spaces
where the air is
thin and deficient,
breathing without moving
can be more than
marathon running. I wish
I were sick enough
to be weak, strong
enough to be enough
for you. But here
are the tears I've
collected, and
I'm sorry they are
not particularly
articulate.
poem for blah blah head stuff no time to finish thinking
afraid. Of that girl, from Canada (Oh
geography! It's not enough to say
this place is far - no place is far,
all places are inside your heart) but
it's not that. It's the seed which lives
inside of me, the stems which sprout
and root into my toes, who
am I? Am I growing into a spot
where you are building rollercoasters?
Archives
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Links
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elimae.
pastsimple.
