2002.05.14
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Objects
My life is my handThe whorls of my fingers... a prayerbook, or a map- My hand, my life, holds a novel, pages smelling of the book's history; words smelling of the book's birth- textured like green polished stones Found Art
He is brilliant, yes, but evil. So evil Idespair of comprehending him. This man doesn't want to murder his father and possess his mother: he wants to murder God and posess the cosmos. Echo
All voices told me "no"a chorus with the tides like a mute echo- echo, first hope of sun and dirt a single hope set in the cliff-face written in ancient script chisled with tools of steel sinew muscle bone clay stone flesh fire There is nothing more to be said
There is nothing, more to be said. There is... nothing more to be said |
--things I wrote in my poetry class with Peter Richards at Tufts University (found on a dot matrix printout) Not sure what I think of them now...a bit gimmicky maybe. "Found Art" was taken verbatim from a Usenet post, later I used it as the basis for Unspoken, you can see some other things I've written as well.