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
untitled totally awful poem i already re-wrote like 10 times, or untitled 7 beginning "you broke your hand"
you = broke, your hand = pressing on my panic
attack button. if this were real life,
i would hug you, and you would feel
strangled. you = broke, your keyboard = playing
notes to me unawares. if you were cognizant, you would
close the computer and put your foot down
on the damper pedal. as a child, my parents said
i take care of others so
well. as an adult, our mothers = broken, my father's
advice: you can't keep trying to fix things. you
broke your hand; these bones
will heal. it's the parts we can't cover
in plaster which are difficult
to locate. if we were together, we might
say hello in polite company before running
towards the closet. i'm crawling with missing limbs. pick me
up: i have enough pieces remaining to recreate
life. pressing on, this panic attack.
Labels: you broke your hand
Archives
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Links
adam.
elimae.
pastsimple.
