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
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 */
Archives
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Links
adam.
elimae.
pastsimple.
