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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             twitter                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

 

edit edit

static (working title)

strike a match

you are wondering
where the fuck

is the waiter
that's the ticket, that girl

is in love
with your brother.

the soup is cold.
it is gazpacho.

the radio in this place.
this is the radio:
it makes a buzz whenever

that girl's cell phone
rings, her cell phone is always
ringing, but you cannot tell:

it is on vibrate and in
an expensive thigh
holster. she is pretty
sexy; you are wondering what

her hair would be like

longer, but that's alright.
check out her
bookbinding thin body--

you have no idea

she is in love with your brother.
she asks where is he tonight and
you have no idea; your brother is

a fucking idiot
anyway, who cares

charismatic smile

her face is like an origami ball

you've gripped too tightly
in those gargantuan hands

of yours, the match is still smoking
into your life-line

as you make a fist and order a steak.

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