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
your place
in the space over time i notice
objects which are text which are
i infer parts of you
have conversations
about point of view in my mind
about critical literacy
about who tells what story
what story you are telling
through objects which are text which are
serving both private and public purposes.
it's about this time over space i travel
to hold onto you without saying
anything about why this journey why
this need to touch you and you
who are text accept
Labels: david - with intention, less rough
revision: untitled
you laugh at my voice all
evening, it rings low
like a telephone in my chest. when
we talk, i feel
like
sleeping, and not
because we have not
but because we want
to communicate
like humans
and humans have bodies. how foreign
this feeling is, how absolute.
your laughter could be rapid
eye movement. i could be seeing
images in my head
Labels: david - with intention, less rough
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