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
an edit
the glottal
stops,
like fireflies
trapped
inside the large
hands
of a large
person
the words are caught
somewhere outside of her
throat.
she knows the words--
[ ]
knows the words: the phlegm
inside of her throat is not her
phlegm but your phlegm
inside of her
throat--
the words
don't form.
you are calm.
you are akin
to a balsa-wood box
with metal hinges like
jaws. why, she is crying
and you do not
know what to say,
or claim not to know,
while saying
you do not know what to say.
Archives
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Links
adam.
elimae.
pastsimple.
