Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
It all looks like it does because things were left behind and thrown out of windows and dropped out of bags. Not all of it is mine. I have used my own saliva as mortar and build with rotten bones and telephones. It's disgusting, they have said. It is, it is. And I love every single piece of trash. I love it.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
I buried all the good stuff in the kitchen I picked up the table in the kitchen I told you where to sit and how thick to slice the bread and in my kitchen you kept the cutting board between your sinewy fingers you wound your knuckles around the wood-grain and chipped the knife my mother let me keep in my kitchen as you were cutting out my heart
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Under the weather he cut me open I am something stranger deeper in. Augers and painted saws bore further he'll pin my broken limbs to the door of the barn. Fingers as firewood and kneecaps as horseshoes. Slice it thicker and thinner and thicker again I can be built by alteration.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
I will paint myself a coat I will paint your fingers to my chin I will paint a million eyes upon my breast I can not be satisfied by mere skin Let me keep you on my body I will not lose you there
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Whatever beneath some material we lay. Like broken stripes of light we hover before refracting and as I had always thought, we never stop bending. Even smudged by matter and building our layers slowly we can always be assured that our posture is moaning. If I scrape together enough of myself in fractured pieces perhaps I'll find you in the curvature of form.