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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

 
there has been a power
shortage. your wife immediately
reaches for the flashlight
and shakes it

a man on a long trip
turns the radio on. someone
is talking about God
in a decisive way

a news anchor is telling you the time

a man is on a long drive, listening
to the radio and
for police sirens

a building has collapsed. a building
has collapsed.

inside the room
there are noises, latin
music and an episode
of suspense. a man
in the corner feigns
insanity, singing brusha
brusha brusha

a man has been driving
for a long time, the radio
keeping him from falling
asleep and into a ditch

twelve o'clock, he says, time
to buy a radio, the perfect
gift for any occasion. his hair
sounds the color of his tie.

buy ironized
yeast tablets
during wartime

someone is interviewing a potential
murderer. he is receiving a medal
for some act not
involving his wife

i do.

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