06/02/2010
Church
Tonight I peed in the church for the first time. If you pee in a church and no one's there, do you still need to squat? Yes.
I took a cookie, overly spiced midwesternly, what is this, ginger? Nutmeg? At least I have a life in which something to do with gratitude.
White robes are lined up in the hall looking like angels. I am wearing a baggy men's jacket. Jesus Christ, how the sycamores shudder.
And how I am thirsty. The night is laden with sycamores, lined up like angels. Thirsty sycamores.
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Large landmass with landfills, filling it
And I'm recycling, watching packaging enmesh with those of the good denizens of this city, pasta boxes, subscribed magazines, colorful messes, scrappy notes, return addresses, there is fear in the containers of frozen meals, and other things. I mean there is fear in other things and there are other signifiers in the boxes. But here we are mingling, I count glass, murmering wine bottles, which beer bottles of which guests, which require enumeration, too. So here we are judging nests in a compactor in the middle of this city. If you fold any map over, halve it we are in the center.
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Depressive Narcissism, or The Case of the Lyrical I, or Capers are for Bagels, or Witness
Some mornings I'd like to get a witness, not because I think I'm deserving of some type of eternal reward, but rather because I'm like, damn, these bananas, look how yellow, what are we supposed to do, and why could I open the curtains yesterday but today it's different. And I'd like to think it's a function of loneliness, or nonsense, or narcissism masked as lonely nonsense, but it's the circuiting that's got me concerned. Just a person to watch me squeeze teabags, to watch me defrock, whom I can chide, and I used to think they were all love poems, because of their domestic qualities, but now I'm thinking that love poems are something else altogether. Watch me think.
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Pits
I'm converting this change, I'm gathering all the stupid detritus of our stupid writerly connection, I'm preheating my oven and rendering language to send. What I'd like to do is make a banging poem you can hear me writing. I'd like to make it for you
sealed with a snot bubble. You say we encountered through my spectacles but really, we were loafing like new books underlining our upper bodies casually gesticulating, we touched covers, we were tired and probably smelled like coffee, but why start at the beginning of the day, or
otherwise when I'd like to construct the present as a present for you? The chicken in my tupperware is sexier for being the chicken in the tupperware of the girl you are thinking of, somewhere squished between your millions of meaningful correspondences. I'm sure the courtship with your wife involved cherry blossoms, but here we are separately admiring regional flowers and we're creating a cloud over the midwest,
over tri-state areas. Others can't see it, or I haven't checked but weather is measurable like language and if I can just keep tapering these words out to reach you, you may feel a tingle pinprick. And we're both engaged privately but I slept with this image last night of unwashed grapes, of the film, of rinsing off detritus to reveal red ripe globes, ready and touching.
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Erika Jo Brown is from New York, where she founded the Chinatown reading series Floetry at 169. She is editor of Stretching Panties magazine, an annual print collection of experimental poetry, architecture and drawing. She's currently an mfa candidate in Iowa, where she's working on "Lyrical Load," a manuscript dealing with the midwest.
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