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
hahahahaha! would you like me to target other hair colors? I could probably compare Jessica Rabbit, the ideal wife, and Cheryl Blossom, the most self-centered of Archie's girlfriends! I do not know enough about Poison Ivy and I don't find Karen Gillan interesting enough to write about yet unless I am writing about Rory as well.
I have a lot to say about the dark haired chick from Lady Lovely Locks. Um....
Whatever, dude.
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