The Islands

When we first arrived, the ocean was a scene from a movie — those hazy dreamy colors, pink and gold and cerulean blue. And the fishermen! So friendly, they gave us crabs to eat, the shells of which we spat out onto the sidewalk. But then, a storm. The boat we climbed into was made of shells that leaked water onto our socks. The wind knocked us head over keel; we washed up onto the shore of our motherland. The islands, shy, receded into mist and couldn’t be found again.


“I set out this morning to see the work / installed in Kensington Gardens / the human-high sculptures called : non-objects :”

Poultry Processing, Day One

Was it hard? I asked, the first time you killed a chicken? She held a just-dead bird in her hands, pulling feathers from its back.”


“In my room is a map of the United States where black dots mark the places I’ve been, black lines the roads I’ve taken. America, enmeshed in a net.”