People in the art world ravel around the globe to see them; they can become obsessions. I wanted to know what makes them so.
POETRY
Here is the Logic I Have Maintained in Observing My Home
And it was beautiful. The night began and years passed within the / forest. Coughs of trees and the blue snow light tapped the window. / Your shape for the window.
MICRO
Dream as Delilah Lampshade
"I am invincible, my body a quiet kind
of violence."
MICRO
D&C
they look like tiny, ripped-out human hearts.
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Toilets: A Journey
A toilet is a place, too, like a seaside resort or a centuries-old city is a place. A visit to a toilet bears recounting, too.
Ní Ìlú Mi
the wolves of the mountain cry about /
nothingness but their mouths are soaked in blood /
and when the gods spray their rain of grace, new arable grows
M for Mitigation
How do I make myself available as a dwelling place? I ferment the soil and listen in close proximity to that somatic space. By doing so, I distribute myself and learn the feeling for the organism, what it has to say to me. The space that holds my sustenance and decay all at once.
We Write Your Name on a Grain of Rice
The doctor shows me cross-sections of my breasts on her computer screen. The images look like something from the Weather Channel, a satellite tracking a monochrome storm.
“You see here,” the doctor says, pointing out a line of tiny white spots, innocent as grains of rice. “And also here.”
***
At New York City street fairs, there’s always a booth claiming: We will write your name on a grain of rice.
Why write someone’s name so tiny it can’t be seen without a magnifying glass?
Who perfects an art like that?
When the doctor shows me the cross-section of my breasts, the grains inside, the microscopic tears that beckon my death, I think: Oh they’re pretty.
You Are A Tyrannosaurus Rex
Your body carries the marks of a fight from many moons ago, and you think that if you close your eyes these marks will heal. / Close your eyes. / Go to number 2.
