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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

 

Odysseus had been

playing many roles: husband, father,

captain. There had been war, and since

he’d made a fool of the one-eyed

son of Poseidon, he’d been lost at sea.

It must be tough, being tied

to the mast of a ship, listening

to Siren’s calls, guiding

wax-eared men. It must be tough,

being lost: lover for years

to a beautiful nymph-- what

torture! Every moment, I’m sure,

wanting to come

home to me. It’s not as though

I enjoy being hostess to a house

of men; blue-balling dozens

with swift wrist movements,

undoing threads. This piece I’m working on

will never be done. It has been hard,

waiting for my husband’s body

to show up in Ithaca. But

when this stranger appeared, old,

and knew the secrets of our bed

which he had built, I let him

take me


Labels:


 

context for self-identification

your best friend says he doesn't see you
as a sidekick. you're taking another quiz
about relationships or movie characters.

the author you newly admire is sick
of manic pixie dream girls. quirk.

your boyfriend loves you. recently
you've stopped worrying about
the near future but are unprepared

for anyone to die. that picture of the cosmos
looks like a man's face.

eventually, the first lady will stop
being defined by gender. you're taking a test.
it involves time, the Internet and life.


 

on shifts in relationship "status"

Juliet and the Rose.
Eve and the Dodo
he thought was a wildcat.

Their names. She takes
the work off his hands.

We believe in incantations.
We learn languages
so we don't have to read

translations. The field
of librarians is full

of women yearning
for classification.
There is something stable

about denotation. It's clear,
the relationship

between call numbers. We love
to fuss over opinions stated
by subject headings, authority

records. There is importance
in documentation, of provenance.


 

is it wrong
the way I think
"everything" is

temporal; breath
as a means towards
decay. our love

can be as old as
our bodies, maybe
language. but what

proper document
can there be when
in your arms

there is always
an alarm
waiting


 

midwest

would I prefer
perpetual butterflies, or

the end of the curb
where the snow turns
to slush which freezes

and in the morning sun
the underlayer thaws
and evaporates, leaving

a thin and empty veil
of paper-thin ice lace

for my ears to hear,
my foot to feel

the satisfying smash
of winter's end?


 

the word "fat"

there's a fault
line there in the ice
and you're putting all
my weight on it


 

Cap One

it's the good that lets you be
the advertisement of government

enhancement. it's the good
that you enhance; it just looks

like the body. it was always in you.
someone had to see it.

made you Jesus, made you
defend.

you were constructed
of nostalgia, the idea that

it was better in the past.
people were wholesome

and ate white bread.
you wore the flag instead

of a mask. you were a symbol
of honest government;

honest America, you were a
symbol, and symbols are used.

Labels:


 

humans imagine lovers
like food: taken

into our bodies
we could know

every molecular strain,
put the nutrients in

our muscles, the fat
on our thighs, but

there is too much
of you to feed continents! you are

a planet of resources
and indigenous peoples,

books on the culture
of your brain and biology

could fill libraries,
could fill my brain

and still overflow the shores
of my countries like a

high tide or tsunami-- there is
no way, even if I ate the moon

that I could consume
the depth of you.

sometimes we talk about
what it would be like

if I came to orgasm
I think it might be

like being God
like looking into

the Time Vortex,
like kissing you

is like kissing
a man who is more than

human, like wielding
ultimate power


 

theory

difficult tasks + time = less + difficult tasks
-difficult tasks -difficult tasks

time = less
time = money
less = money

I should stop adding to my amazon wish list.

anxiety + medication = less + anxiety
- anxiety - anxiety

medication = less
less = time
less = money

medication = time
medication = money

I'd love for everyone to stop complaining about Obamacare.
I would have moved to Canada gladly.

problems + money = temporary - problems
- problems - problems
money = temporary - problems - problems

I should start adding to my amazon wish list.


 

intake

not knowing how to reply, the brief
illustration of what would make me
paranoid is do I think

the people in the waiting
room are talking

about me? and no, of course not
I say but if I knew them
well then, of course.

in the classroom, for instance
all the students hate me

for having loud inarticulate
meandering opinions. not knowing
if this is paranoid I call

Sonja. Sonja, I say, I'm so
happy we've never shared

that kind of intellectual
space; you might hate my guts
and why are streetlamps

constantly extinguishing
as I pass them? she laughs


 

there is in the blood
what makes the pads
of your fingers red, playing
on the extensors
on the flexors
hiding under my skin

there is breathing
when I have been emotional
and as such, interrupting
what could have been
easy and life-giving.
it is yours, I feel it

filling space between our bodies
which you've already tightened
in your arms I feel
what sends our blood
to extremities, my brain
beside your brain can slow

time. these cells
are temporary; I can't help
but stare at our wounds
as they change
our bodies, the iron
taste, full of life


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