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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

 

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.


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