Are you my best friend? Are you a house shaped origami fold? Are you my mom? Are you my wife? I think so. Are you my sister? My dead dog? Are you the lady I used to live next door to? Your name was Ginny and I used to try on your lipstick when you weren’t home. I’d hide behind your rose bushes. Are you my frontal lobe? My spleen? I think so. Are you me? Are you a canary in the rain? Are you a top hat? A cast iron pan? Are you a sponge in my hands? Are you the aurora borealis? I think so.
Buzz - NYC
These holes on either side of this head haven't had a pause from noise in two weeks. Like ferns reach for sun, these ears reach for pauses between an incessant whirl of traffic, air conditioning, yelling, flash bulbs, bad pop music, honking, clanging, banging, buzzing, humming, screeching. They search for whispers emanating from invisible ones who sleep face down on concrete. They take breaks in bathrooms and cozy up to earplugs. The animal inside these ears thinks of most of this noise as preditorial. The animal inside these ears wonders how other ears belonging to animals can live in such sound. There is a deafness an animal must have here to avoid being eaten alive.
Our friends the books
This is what happens when a mammal named Felicity pays a visit to The Strand and Three Lives bookstores.
