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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

 

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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