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
argh
i just realized i'm a sucker and also female and also wtf
if only it weren't so in writing
documentation can be good, but also terribly embarrassing
jupiter
you feel you're on
a different planet. gravity does
too much work, you're heavier, lower
to the ground. it's winter
and you demand an oscillating fan
to regulate your temperature. if it were
just blankets, you'd burn
up the atmosphere. you feel
like a planet. its surface is cool
but its core is burning. no one, you think,
will be able to breathe this.
this is not a hospitable environment.
this environment cannot support life.
you seem weightless. that's what people say.
laughter can seem weightless. words
are loaded with burdens. what exactly
is this orbital path? where
are the other bodies holding
the system in balance? how can a giant
keep turning in space?
space
it hurts my eyes to clean up the moon, shine
the light bits, outline craters in black
paint. wear sunglasses on the moon; moon
glasses never caught on. the moon is littered
with red plastic cups because the moon is home
to the hardest drinking parties. it hurts my
eyes to open them. why can't we just sleep
and live in dreams? why always waking up
to rub at these? it hurts my eyes
to think about you, about cleaning up the moon.
outlining the dark parts of the moon. on the moon
we play shuffleboard without a shuffleboard:
we take these pieces and gently push them
away from us. in space there is no friction.
in space, our pieces leave us and never return.
walking
it's dark out here.
it's because our eyes are closed.
it's because it is night.
i feel you, there.
it's because you're next to me.
it's because you're moving.
it's because i want to believe.
we notice things, easy things like breathing.
it's because of the cold.
it's because of our laughter.
it's because of the water.
it's because of the moon.
touching.
it's because of the stars.
it's because of sleep deprivation.
it's because of alcohol.
it's because of your scent.
it's because.
untitled
you and i buckle into
thrill rides, forgetting
how we've gotten
old. it's because
we didn't grow up
together. it's because
you wear glasses
and they might fall
off if you don't
take them off. it's because
i keep losing my
shoes and don't worry
about it. i keep running
up the empty rows
at the end of the evening.
the lines are gone and
i have a headache. there's so much
energy, can't we
spend eight dollars to prove
to ourselves that we were happy
for fifty seconds?
when singing love songs
slow my throat is
closing, a fist.
your name is
lodged inside,
a small stiff stick
scratching my
softness. it's the air
that makes these muscles
clench, the lack of air.
it's true breathing
is easy, like the breeze
through a screen
door, but my body believes
these lungs are almost
empty, and your arms
are in the way.
man in black
how i've known you, almost
long enough to grow
back these missing limbs,
and this is the second
time we've exchanged thoughts
on music. i assume
you haven't had a girl
friend in at least
eight years, but i'm realizing
these secrets you've been
keeping have never been
secrets. i've loved you, not knowing
there are things we have
in common: when you wear that shirt
and see me once a year,
i shouldn't just hold you
and let go. i shouldn't just
walk these short distances, ask
questions i think i know
the answers to. how i've known
you, you're almost close.
super powers
you throw your words
with accuracy,
darts on the board
ironically printed
on one of many t-shirts
i wear, self-identifying
as a geek, super-
hero lover, examiner
of the oxford english dictionary.
these traits exposed
are weak spots in armor,
worn cotton, revealing
a small word about
a song which means
more to me than walking.
if the quiver in my face
could be
an arrow
it would pierce
the metal plate
surrounding your heart
untitled
i'm angry at the way you
smell, your sense of humor,
your smile and your eyes
behind glass:
no one else has a smell
that i can smell without
putting myself up against
their skin. no one else
has a voice i can hear
in my chest. no one else
lets me steal their sight
for hours into the night.
no one else withholds words
with such precision, choosing
diction like bullets and
aims aims aims --
did you know, i am not
charging towards you? i am
a deer in these woods,
trying not to fear
the smallest noise you make
as the leaves
and branches break
in your earthquake
impromptu meetup, draft 2
roll of quarters, a scramble
for cash. i run into doors, outdoors --
it is good to see you. even when
i assume we will never be dating
i get close and don't notice it,
leaning into your knee. i forget all
the tender i have. you're so
nice. you're so nice.
geek culture
we compare numbers
of sexual partners and lips
we've touched
with our lips. we use
the new language, and our fingers
would look the same to anyone
undiscerning. we are
like grade school children.
your numbers are twice mine;
my numbers are twice yours,
any adult will tell us
our numbers mean nothing.
we are like children.
you use the term "geek culture," as though
to romanticize how slowly
life turtles by. i say, screw
this, i want to fuck
this handsome guy. you know
this desire is not realism. i am
putting on a mother's
lipstick; i would trip
in high heels. even if i make it
with this handsome dweeb, it will be
awkward and ruin everything
intimacy
it's sunday, you're in a cartoon
and walls keep rising around you.
there are no buckets of black
paint for tunnel-making
it's sunday, you're in a carpet.
a pretty girl tries
to let you loose, but
there is no end
it's sunday, you're in a straitjacket
and your shoes
are made of metal. you can't
even kick the air
it's sunday, you're in a church.
bells are ringing
in your head. someone
forces them down your throat
it's sunday, you're in a nightmare.
you've tripped and i try
to hold you
but you can't escape
it's sunday, you're in bed
and breakfast is not coming
to you. there are no kindnesses
this late in the morning
untitled for chris
have rested
even theoretical relationships != perfect, draft 2 (+some algebra)
happens. some(how+one+where)
will love my lovely
mother's flaws
father's forehead, the way
i am flying --
and me, too! i will love some(one+
time), an independent
mess. (we were born
+we will die)
alone. raise children
who feel loved
overwhelmed
insect-like hum,
rapid eye movement - your body
is calmer than expected. is
paralyzed - your body can only do
what a brain on ice allows:
the slow sorting of stacks
of unimportant junk into
smaller stacks of unimportant junk.
you should throw this all
away - your body cannot
remember to feed itself. under
the spell of electronic music,
the heart stops buzzing
and starts beating - your body
is beautiful and needs
these distractions. it knows
the difficulties of being
someone who breathes.
versus rock
are shaking, these
calluses have started.
where will the feminine
softness be
when i am hardened,
attacking a wall or thought
of you, vocalizing
loudly? i have been
hurt. who will hold onto
these hands, blistered
from years of rope,
hope, this new hardness
on the outside--?
-(reciprocal)
and i am made of carbon
can we share
electrons? the line
between optimism and
delusion is dark
and cold, heavy
and almost invisible
even theoretical relationships != perfect
happens. somehow someone somewhere
will love my lovely
mother's flaws
(sometime) father's forehead, the way
i am always flying --
and me, too! i will love someone
sometime, some big independent
mess. and we were born
alone. we will die
alone. raise children
who feel loved
not knowing
at leaves instead
of trees. they fall,
and sure, this dancing
is beautiful, but we can't
be almost alive forever.
fast
with science and patch you
together with human
touch. it's true, your brain
is full of misfiring, your heart
is afraid to beat, and the music
cannot be expressed, yet isn't
a substitute for
alert: i have crossed too
many wires, functionality
is low. alert: skin to skin
does mean heart to heart
my pace is
andante. your pace-
maker sparks and backfires.
i would not attack you
with electricity if i knew;
it's easy to slow down
suicide
raise me while i raised
your kids, with the grocery lists
and the open cookbook. those deadlines
are lines we all trip along. how tall
your sons are when i hold them
changes. i suspect like the weather
i am caught in some beautiful
time trap, and you
don't exist
in the mausoleum. so why
do i come here?
untitled
my chest expands, this explosion
of color in the trees: you call this
weather "grey." i'm happy
while you are pensive
and sullen. you think
i'm pensive and sullen
when i'm happy. this quiet is hard
to maintain. laughter, with you
is like breathing in
this autumn air. since i never remember
what you smell like, today
you smell like wet, red
leaves. i'm unsure if we'll ever
be friends or this
peaceful
park, draft 2
these routes, your shoes,
how air tastes.
around your face
and twisting the tire
swing is too too dizzying and everything
smells like
i, too, like this song, draft 2
music is. we exchange
poetry, although you are unaware
of it. these heads nod in time
to each other, across
distances, are slow dancing. the look
on my face, which you miss
as you briefly air
drum over the steering wheel,
is quiet
rapture, as though
no persons besides us exist:
no persons besides us have ever
gestured into the space
in front of them. this sound
cannot be contained
in hollow bodies. every sound
is beautiful, is this love
we may never make.
cemetery, draft 2
holidays, draft 2
each other, i love you, yeah, i live
in the past
and the future, right now
is difficult. thanks for the music.
having a tempo is like having
a heart. i am terrified
of chicago. maybe it owns me.
places one grows up beside can own you.
i am terrified of the unknown.
on thanksgiving i am thankful
for open museums.
i am sensitive to strangers, if you let me
i will crawl into your lap
and fall
asleep. yes, it is ridiculous
we don't know each other, i
trust the temperature
and smell of your skin. yes,
it is ridiculous, we don't know
each other. i trust that
if you were one
molecule in
the universe, i would breathe you
in with the atoms of long-dead
stars. i'm leaving town. i will imagine
i am on a boat somewhere
gazing at dark water and hearing it
crash. you won't be
running, but in my mind
house warming, draft 2
muse
from somewhere
in the morning
is it the songs
you listen and i'm
listening, in the morning
like bells in
the morning
like underscores
or dvd commentary
the poems form
from words, somewhere
in the morning, is it
these feelings
or this laughter
is this laughter you
Warning
electrical storms
shaped bike
light last night, sang
your daddy's car
all the way home,
thinking of you and
the sound your chest makes, the
pressure of your fingertips
How when we're apart
I can articulate. How when
your skin creates a circuit
I can speak again
These short distances
are like electrical
storms.
in person communcations
like "like" and "you," "want to see" --
stretch back, belong to me --
i want them to stick --
do you remember silly
putty? did it stain your clothes?
could you tell me all about
your childhood? if i
jump when you make
a noise, will you make noises?
i started with the alphabet
and you can read
expressions, please remember
the signs
for 'WORRIED' and 'WATER'
and 'WALK'
and 'HAPPY' and 'SAME'
and 'TOGETHER'
these words are
in our hands
from August
chest shouts, loins whimper
you whisper
close your eyes and put out
your hands
listen. the air moves around
his footfalls
your body backs into his
unexpectedly. there is no
gap between your hearts. no
feeling but that of your finger
tips touching in the cool night
breeze. hot air
escapes your mouths
into the dark
from August.
plastic memorabilia, talk
to me
my relationship with memories
is intense
and scary to humans.
speak with him a fraction
the time i talk to him,
it's like breathing.
plastic memorabilia, photograph
imprint his hands briefly
face. arm. hand. shoulder.
so that i can bathe
it's hard to be normal
when surrounded by electricity
electricity makes the heart
do strange things
from late February. "i miss you"
can we sing songs and record them?
can they be Divine Comedy songs?
can you play them on the guitar, so I don't have to?
can we unlearn whatever we've absorbed, our talents
in the sport of sloth or whatever
I want to sing
again, for those tones
to come, and my hands--
can we relearn what we've forgotten, our minute
attention to facial grammar
(oo),(CHA), fingerspell without
bouncing
our hands up and down, please
I want to sign
again, for someone to understand me
when I stop my mouth
mid-sentence and change
language
everything is different, I used to
know and love this
love
ball of string and you wear it
you can't tie
people together, you can't wrap
anyone up in it, you just
give up
the string and hope
that your pieces don't
fall apart
line
the route between
your bedroom and mine
as a neon line, clearly
drawn. it is what intent
looks like - imagined
into existence, the line
off a fly-fisherman’s pole
as it hits water. i am
more than knee-deep in
my own explanations
for your actions, and you
don’t premeditate. every word
escaping this tight line
is honest, is spontaneous.
if we hold hands
in the future
my heart my mouth will make
an ‘o’
look here
to stare at others, but
it’s this screen that trained us
to keep our gaze darting
off the road if driving
and on the driver’s face
if in the passenger seat. almost every ride i’ve taken
is on the bus. you’re
so often not so close
i could touch you.
one of these months, i will
be a mother, maybe
you will find it eerie
to see me as intent
on a small person’s sighs as
the slightest movement of your eyes
spoon
in my back pocket
and i’m listening to an album by that band
you listen to
i’ll be thinking nice thoughts
and refraining from sharing them
like, i’d like to say
you’re a nice person
i like nice people and little things
make me happy sometimes
sliding my thumb up
and down this concave surface
Spark
impulse of emotion. i’m smart enough
but i’ll call this magic
and believe it,
lie to you about academics. it is a graphic
novel i’d rather be reading,
the visceral <something> images inspire, the
blue, blue, blue and i miss you
for reasons which don’t exist
yet. will we grow up, are we
there yet? yet
i’m through inviting you
to the Bakken Museum
to play with electricity and make music
with our hands
**Update**
I guess I'll start posting up the stuff I've been writing lately, which is of varied quality, and mostly love poems I guess, since my brain is hopped up on dopamine. And adrenaline. And pheromones, when I'm close enough. It's like a throwback to 2000, 2001, except bigger.
So I apologize. I know love poems can be irritating as all hell. But here's where I live at this moment.
Archives
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Links
adam.
elimae.
pastsimple.
