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
on deconstructing distance while you are "away" with reference to time, insulation, and the female mind
my mind i feel your hands
on my hips somewhere
(between emma frost, who could care
less if
i want her, and
buffy summers, who is present
but invisible, uses invisibility
to free her body)
your hands are warm but colder
than the air under blankets
and blankets and blankets i have
covering me as though the weight
of them could cover me your hands on
my hips feel in many places
here the light is
young and where you are
the light is younger
in my mind i am in your mind
and these bodies are but
they are also transparent
it is winter i can feel it
when i breathe it is summer
or spring all of the world is coming
to life while we laugh
believing and unbelieving
the ways we have to touch each other
revision: maze
out of us, i'm
alone in being
weighed down with the possibility
of being somewhere
other than here, thinking
about the word "trappings"
and how they're a trap. it's hard
to get lost in mirrors, turn
a corner hoping to hear you
say i've gone missing, as though
you could stop seeing me.
it's momentary. this small
space seems larger than it is:
we're almost touching all
of the time. it's easier to find
the way by feel, trace
the outline of the physical, close
these outer eyes. if i listen
any time, i can hear you
and your heart beating
down walls between us
i love you so much that when i read this poem out loud it has extra words and punctuation that only i see and when i read this poem out loud it's never to myself but to you across any gaps in space and time which only exist in the mind
i start to define happy thinking
of you and the secret
inside which only i know
even though everyone knows
you're special when you're
with me you're It you're capital
letters and major acronyms
which spell out your status all
the best things are undoubted
and in my heart are wishes
we make together kisses
mouth words in the language
i cannot write to tell
anyone but you
know how i'm trying to say
this is concrete yet we are
fluid how we fill each other
filing cabinet
i take
well and ill
organized
information, make
a storm. you
are writing
songs i like to imagine
are for me which are
for you. the music fits
in pockets
i don't have. these pamphlets
and maps are not
the same as memories. you
are melodic on the topic
of too much
diction for two
proximate intimate innate
inherent essential permanence
cohesion. cohesiveness.
disjoint misremember
imperfect blemish aesthetic
color sound depth - voice
voice text textual touch tactile
sense sensual assuage
tear -- tear
proximate space sin breath
breathe exhale intake inborn
cross section
the floes are heavy
yet float, bond together
like other solids--it's not
the same but sometimes
i see tectonic plates
this way, whole substances
which under extraordinary circumstances
could melt, could cause
instead of earthquakes quick
sand sinking of high rises,
of ourselves, the opinions we've built
of the human race, but i also know
the core of the earth is not
a substance i can understand, emotionally,
or get close to, relative to anything.
there is a denseness inside
large objects and other people
which i know exists, but not
from personal experience. floes could melt
but they can also trap a vessel
correspondence
it's over
intentionality
which directs
the stationery,
stacks of
books and blank
books, your mind
whirring
like an electric
fence or type
writer, waiting
for someone or something
to hit with force, to make
a dark impression, a
bright spark
untitled
I don't want to inter-
rupt, but I can go
whenever. The marked pages
in these Lunch Poems
are strange to me
and I made them. It is not
summer and no one is
out honking car horns
or taking off their clothes
because of the heat. It is
snowing in Chicago
according to Facebook.
Happy Christmas, I'm going
to be alone with
ink and digital ink,
the sound of small motors
and purring. I enjoy cranberries
as decor. My family and your family
are disparate. My books and your books
use the same articles
and prepositions. Before
we met, language
didn't make sense. On the page
we do high dives, point
fingers
untitled
if there is nothing
to worry about, i
can imagine
the universe is
the first page
and is blank
i could write
about everything
that could go wrong
graphite will last
longer than ink
smears --
you persist with
laughing, this affection,
the universe is
and we are, and there is
nothing to worry about.
the shape of us is
palpable. this paper
is more than two
dimensional
love, space/time, and the universe
you write and not explicitly
about me. it's localized
in the cosmos, we live
together. we disconnect
but are not disconnected.
****
times i've said your name
times i've heard you say my name
in full or partial, times
you've expressed expressions
****
i write and not evasively
about us. it's global
in my chest, you live
largely. you are a piece
rousing cohesion.
****
spaces i've occupied with you
spaces i've imagined us occupying
physical or , spaces
we have closed and opened
****
i may be approaching
an event horizon
with you inside
memory, art, intention, product
no matter the language, when you lose
sensation, it's lost. ghost limbs
you feel itching when your brain
is thinking, especially
when the thoughts are not
in written words; vocabulary
you feel in movement or in sound,
but the denotation, it's lost.
the smell you almost smell
when your heart is
remembering, the voice recording
in your head: it's accurate
but you'll never make it
outside your body
your place
in the space over time i notice
objects which are text which are
i infer parts of you
have conversations
about point of view in my mind
about critical literacy
about who tells what story
what story you are telling
through objects which are text which are
serving both private and public purposes.
it's about this time over space i travel
to hold onto you without saying
anything about why this journey why
this need to touch you and you
who are text accept
Labels: david - with intention, less rough
never finishing this
if i could i would document
the stamp you are, the injection
the embossed, the engraved are incorrect
there are no removals. the shape
worked on this more.
we exchange hearts, the snow
falling in florescent light. your lips
communicate as well
as pianos. my tongue clicks
against your tongue like outdoor
furniture being pieced together.
the words we say are inspired
by our skeletons, our organs. our skin
wants to be one skin. we're losing
time; the snow is deceptive in that
it falls and the sky brightens. it's late
at night but close your eyes, it might be
twilight. the words we say come
from the place where new and eternal are.
this language and these bodies are
small like snowflakes on a heat lamp
Labels: less rough
nightmares which were not nightmares
am i immobile? without this
combustion, not traveling but
traveled. is it true
real life lives beyond these highways; my legs
are sore from climbing and circular movement.
i wish i were a steam locomotive.
in the insecure dreams from which i wake,
it's a nuisance to store my bicycle
in the back of your car, and also time
i wait outside a coffee shop, watching
a street performer dance like a fruit fly,
trying to be happy for you, you
talk books inside with a woman
from MPR. on the college campus, money
is allocated to the publication
of the first unwritten novel
of a wild-haired boy my junior.
it is like I am watching television.
it is like i am watching television.
it is possible, I could go
home, but i have to wait for this ride
vapor
the clouds are forest, covered
in snow which is about to be snow, oh
i want to be walking this serious
tundra. the trees are invisible, are
numerous and between us, easy
injury sites, easy to walk
through, if you grok the process.
the clouds are gapless and under
the cloud layer is a layer of clouds.
it seems impossible, how we see
through what seems to be
solid. we pass through and the sky
closes above our heads. different
from the sensation between us
when we stand by the water, point
out the stars. the bright burning
isn't in our hearts, only wishes
for it. we try to say what we want
through use of nuance we don't have.
/* nts think more on through, between */
i will never finish this!
forget the present
on the bedside
table it - the future
is always going
to happen.
untitled
the three of us eat
the food well-meaning
people have brought
in the room which used to be
my father's room, the furniture now
being my cousin's furniture,
the walls adorned in photographs
of the three of us, young
and thinking we know
each other. in almost all we look
off camera. these photographs
are lies which state we are not
strangers, which we are. one
more meeting before some more
of us are married or a mother
or different
untitled
you make me want
to climb apple trees
quietly, not to disturb
the fruit or
movement behind wood
on hinges, my leg
wrapped around
a limb, holding
flesh between my flesh,
no noise
but the first bite
and the next, all
the sounds
which follow:
hard thumps to the ground,
exclamations
x-men! (third revision this evening, bam)
we make connections
with mutants. we sympathize,
see ourselves
in others. hide
our abilities. develop
only after exposing ourselves.
we're not afraid
of mutants. we're afraid.
we're afraid of being
ostracized. we're afraid
of humans. these unique genes
the purest bit of humanity.
untitled
alternately, you still
the bad chest
moments where there is a bomb there
by looking at me as though
there is not a bomb there.
when those wires are cut,
the sparks are in
your mouth; skin where my skin
feels. the good chest
spreads like a powder line
across our bodies. sometimes i feel
like a spooky house in an old comic. you open
a chest and instead of
treasure, a staircase leads down
into a cellar, to a river leading out
to the ocean. if we're exploring,
i'm thankful that in these stock
stories characters find
the exit before the cave
collapses, leaving what was
a haunted house unhaunted.
the ground beneath us somehow
stable, the gold
unnecessary for us to view
the end as satisfying
on my many broken watches
if i take it to the jewelers, will it bring back time?
if time is what keeps us paced
beside other pairs of people, i will keep
my watch sealed in
this tin. or does time serve memory: our future
memories being made and how we will
remember them? if so, after these repairs
i will fix the strap on this ticking
so i cannot lose it. the manual
mechanism, i suspect, is what makes this
timing accurate. we start quickly, can lose
tension, then wind each other up again
untitled
/* nts think more on the cousin/dennis overlap, make more cohesive? Some issues with gender */
snow contains
time. meet an artist
from california in minnesota, talk
about being
asian, but not
being spoken to
in languages
other than english.
reframe, re-contextualize
how to define images
of ourselves, of this
19th century woman, of
snow. after the
funeral, he says
he could never live
in the midwest. how
many summers have i
spent in heat
exhaustion in fresno, despising
spanish tile roofs, catching
toads and snails
beside the road? holding on
to the backs of bicycles, my head
fuzzy with humidity.
caitlin gives him advice, buy another
bike for the winter. protect what's valuable
from the cold and salt. i tell him sure,
but this is all i have
the weather, spelunking
the roof
of my mouth
overhead
is porous.
lace-like
layers of snow
or the imprint
of your skin
on my skin
insulate,
melt and seep
down my throat.
i open my mouth involuntarily.
my mouth opens, and you are
entering caves. stalactites
of sound
want to touch you: drip
down like sweat, like forever
falling
precipitation.
unfinished
we exchange hearts, the snow
falling in florescent light. your lips
communicate as well
as pianos. christmas is
an emotion, not an institution, and this is
it.
Labels: draft (has been revised)
revision: she will own an auger
we swing on swings; they make
the sound that whales must make
when they call to each other.
rusty hinges, the friction
of metal on metal in the closing darkness:
do we know this is
the last time we will be
together? life as a series
of flashbacks, poorly filmed:
you and i should look younger.
this moment has aged
us. we are hardening. we turn
away from each other and into
sheets of ice on the water thick
enough to walk on,
thin enough that
danger exists. do you know
other people will break it
revision 2: small crash
/* STILL not done */
beauty is important; bikes must fall.
outside the body i hug
my leg against a wall. i will always
love like this
the moment he hit me
or almost hit me. i will always
remember how we made
contact: swerving, yelling, police,
a romantic dream
of a movie. i look
amazing. i’m angry
and alive
revision: poem for andrew northrop
my father suggests i take the best
words and send them to you. i tell him you cannot
handle the language
i've chosen. you broke your hand
and don't notice
the screaming. our exchanges
made scintillations. our exchanges,
lack of exchanges,
are turbulence in the atmosphere.
revision: first conversation
across the table are miles of ice. we
slide into each other, understand
we don't understand how other people live
in houses made of sand. our ideas
dance. you and i know the steps almost
instinctually. you use your hand
like a blade, making notches in the slick surface
as you talk, keeping me from skidding off
revision: the end or untitled 18 beginning "you broke your hand"
you broke your hand, now you can't
climb walls. there is something
in her eye. take a picture:
it's your job. peter, only you
know if the costume under your clothes
itches. it's a choice
to let someone undress you,
to use your sense to evade a blow, or
to catch someone falling.
Labels: marvel
revision: hearts
it's a small photo booth and can house a few people. movement
is allowed but not encouraged. please do not play
with the backdrops. please do not spin the red patent leather stool.
it's a small photo booth and is cozy for two. two can
make faces or touch faces or touch faces with faces. these faces
want to see.
it's a small photo booth and is usually empty. maintenance is easy
and profits are meager. periodically, someone comes
to replace the film. it gets old.
it's a small hiding place and many squeeze in.
they cover the lens. the body count is high, the pictures
are all blurry.
revision 2: distance
worry stops
my mouth, my mouth
stopping
worries you. there is
silence, and not
the natural kind.
we stop, hearing
a predator or
each other’s
breathing: the holding
of breath in confined
spaces: your car, or the
internet. want makes us
update our status. fear makes us
say nothing.
Labels: emilie thinks this is close to done
your hand
i like how you laugh
when my arm twitches and makes
a fist, restraining
my mouth,
containing the emotion. when michael says
we should, silently
think about what it is
we are grateful
for, i hesitate before opening
my palm and
waiting for you: squeezing
longer and harder
than probably you
expected
untitled (v. unpolished? makes any sense? fell asleep while writing this)
not because we are musical
beings, but because i want
to know you, i listen
to the sound your lungs and
diaphragm and esophagus and
lips and sleeping tongue makes
imagining or knowing secrets
are in that hot, wet air. there
are things i will only know
after years of logged gameplay.
it is musical, and the tempo
of your chest rises and falls
with my eyelids. i want to see
the details of your face when
it is dark. how did anyone function
before the digital camera? i see
your eyes when i close mine,
feel them, the way i feel about you
no time (to finish this, if it is unfinished. i think so. very rough.)
that complicates -- what's the value
in thinking so much
about your thoughts,
in wondering why
things are, and what
we might be like
a few minutes from now?
if fermentation focuses
my focus, what logic
makes chemical balance
a small lobotomy? i know
i want the space
around us to be explored, the space
between us less defined, the time
to be always out, to roll
unending
/* "It's Only Time" */
rest
i do not have two thousand dollars to buy this banjo.
i am not confident that these strings are a good idea.
i could probably sit on this couch forever and get
the hang of it. i could sell these instruments
to get one good one, but i'm not going to fall in love
with the bass, not going to find the time
to be in that band. it's as though my fingers
fall through the white space on staff paper.
i cannot accurately remember the tempo
at which you played "deep
sea diving suit;" maybe also "closer."
i cannot accurately remember the cold
tile floor under the piano. watching the pedals
as though watching you touch me.
i do not have enough time to watch you sleep
without falling asleep. your facial profile
changes as you sigh, make small shifts. what
are you dreaming about? i won't wake you, yet
i'm not afraid to touch you. the rest is
silent. i am going to fall in love
without the strings and hammers, yet
still the tuning is all.
accidentals
we talk about
the future as though it's tomorrow,
and it is.
did you know space
time is collapsing
like the belly
of an accordion?
don't let the air
run out. this beautiful
dissonance could live inside of me.
there is something to hydration,
some secret. it is in
your mouth
i will meet you
in books; we will meet
in books. here is
the soundtrack:
garr not exactly what i was going for, but i really have to leave. will re-write this later.
the physical is
like a taut line
and we walk it, our
weight
tugs,
creating points of
increased tension--
we torque
ourselves-- and
thank you
for these brief
quiet pauses in
between
whispering your name, where
i can just
look
at you
fear
in this new life
i have controlled panic
attacks in which i hurt
you, forgetting this girl
who hides in my vocal
cords. she changes the
tone of my insides.
when she shakes, it feels
like resonance. these stirrings
could be anything. it helps
to remember your face,
your face seeing my face:
she sees it, she
rests. as she sleeps, i
know this excitement
will stabilize, and you
are not only
plucking my strings
Labels: less rough
revision: untitled
/* for two columns, and "absolution" is not correct, but neither is "liberation" or "emancipation." thinking next edit to listen to "fancy poultry/inbound" or whatever its called first */
for what reasons would i
use the ugly imagery
to tell you
what happened
in the dressing
rooms, what nakedness
is made of weapons--
what kind of parents
drive you to these
chambers? it's not safe
to be alone together.
it crushes. it crushes.
it crushes. it crushes.
****
the reason in your
voice, your careful
diction. every word
like a bell
inside of me, this
nakedness clothes
in absolution--
conversation carries
these driving desires
for you, to feel
safe, to be alone together.
it rings, it rings,
it rings, it rings!
untitled for i'm not there to hold you
if i could find
the boy who broke
and made emptiness
in you, i would
etch your name
into his chest, the names
of all spaces
he has carved.
dark matter does not equal
potential, does not
equal positive
values. this denseness,
you don't want to
see it yet, but you will
and it will be pain
and it will be better
but never good.
and although i could never kill
sometimes i wish
i could.
untitled
/* as discussed with caitlin, this poem is the equivalent of emilie going "la la la la la" with hands waving. also, complaining! yay!
that said, this took a bitch of a long time to write. */
the stay-
puft marshmallow man is a cyclist
who will not answer your calls, will
climax when complete. you take a
shower; you wash off; you
find wide spaces
of time: for dancing, climbing, walking.
hours for the mindless viewing of television.
he doesn't know what he wants.
he wants to hurt you, but for you
to be unhurt.
the pillsbury dough boy
is irritated by everyone
and their disregard for his personal space.
at parties, he casually touches all the girls.
it's cool, he thinks. this is casual.
what is casual can be casual.
what he wants is never
to stop being on television.
what is casual can be causal.
the gingerbread man speaks your language,
is annoying as fuck. teases
like a toreador without his ADHD medication.
he says he wants to get married. he says he wants
children. he says he wants a new job, a foundation
for the things he wants. what he wants is to stop
fearing what he wants. you can't
catch him. he is half gone,
three-quarters gone,
gone. the fox is full. you
take a shower; you wash off; you
find
bouldering
it's important that i lose
skin on the grip, lunging
for a hand hold. call for your attention
while hanging, clinging
like a bat. it's possible that you are
beautiful but don't know it,
don't hear where my voice is
coming from. nothing holds me
but these fingers. echolocation
is between us. keep talking --
we'll solve the problems. let go --
meet land with few injuries
stephin merritt educates on love and intoxication
the song in my mind, i wake up
where everything is
changing. i wonder when
sleep will be natural: there are animals
inside of us, outside, breathing
hot air on all surfaces.
small tempests crash
into my brainwaves.
the beat is external, internal,
with a bow slowly
sliding down
strings
revision: untitled sometime between 1/17-1/20/2007
tiffany follows me. we are going round
and round on the foot-powered merry
go round - in every color i step
against a dizzy blur, over the handrails
onto painted metal like kisses, toes first,
gently, as she chases to kiss me.
red is a good good color.
it doesn't remind me of blood at all.
i have a scarf shaped like valentine's day.
i wore a white ribbon in my hair until
my mother took it: this means someone
has died. replace it
with a red bow tie, i look like snow
white. my mother steals shadow
puppets. tiffany
is dancing
in iron shoes; my shoes dance on the iron
lazy susan, like a dancer
hair black as ebony, lips
red as
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