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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

 

untitled

The years ahead are larger than the years behind, yet
the years behind pull us, thread
buttons to our backsides, want to hold us down
with holes

in the fabric of history. When walking
I step on the hem of my too-long trousers, my too-long
anachronistic dress. That part is dirty, starts
the small threads which loosen at essential seams.

I like this color on you, I say, maybe more
in this ratty t-shirt than you know.

We're surrounded by the past; these tomes
talk about the future. Have we forgotten
all the breaths I take from your tongue
with my tongue are time

traveling? I feel it inside my ancient body
and the small sigh of your voice. I could recognize
you by the feel of your face, no matter
how old we may eventually become.


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