What did she want to be when she grew up? Not this. She plucks a gray hair from her pubis. Compares her legs to other legs, longer, leaner varieties. The lady on the cover of the art catalog looks firm and impressionable. She’s only interesting once, after the right hand is shaken. What have you been doing lately? Grilling chicken, bedtime routines, scouring mold from the bathroom drain. Pushups on knees. They say days pile up onto other days. They begin to go faster and faster. But she thinks, days, if they are filled properly, if they contain vivid color, wild sound and nuanced flavor, they will obliterate the illusion of slow-or-fast time. She’s working on this. Today she will go into the office and observe it like a performance. Cubicles and vacuum sealed lunches in the refrigerator. Meetings about meetings about meetings. False smiles. The disappointment of summer’s sun bidding us all farewell. Talk of rain to come. She considers answering questions about weekend plans using the horn of a narwhal. The flop of blubber on the Pacific coastline. The hollow ring of gargantuan bones. We didn’t fuck this weekend, but I did sniff packs of wild humans in malls. Her new favorite pastime. There isn’t a need to share. Or is there? Trees share sound. Psithurism. Trees drop leaves. Abscission. It’s not happening, she says to herself as she sees the greening of the leaves still affixed to their branches. When they fall will they still consider the branches theirs? The Korean future teller holds her head in her hands. You think very much. Maybe you can soften these thoughts a bit. Cotton candy and clouds, memory foam, rabid froth. She used to write letters to a long ago lover, but now they are buried inside a machine she no longer has access to. Watch what you say. Endings can happen faster than beginnings. The spirit lady sends her an email with hearts and prayer hand emoticons and she can’t help but think the spirit lady is concerned about her well being. So she drives with added space between herself and other cars and opens her eyes like she’s underwater on the lookout for predators.
The Dreaming Dirt
Last night's Dreaming Dirt was a tremendous success. A perfect balance of words, images, body, motion, sound, humor, noise, heart and absurdity. Mary Edwards opened up with a virtual performance of her song Time and I . Stevyn Llewellyn made some rather beautiful discordance as microscopic details of waves and blooming flowers flickered behind. Gabriel Liston did live sketches (see below) of both the audience and the performers while sitting in a chair at the corner of the stage. Juliet Gagnon read a stunning prose piece all the way from Eindhoven. Lindsey Allgood considered feminine intimacy with the squeeze-pop of balloons and hand painted eggs. Shane Paulson screened an autobiographical animated video/sound work. Arielle Adkin discussed a new work in process in relation to post-breakup dreams. Stephanie Lavon Trotter looped and weaved operatic vocals through microphones and distortion pedals. Jay Ponteri read from Robert Walser, Mary Ruefle and Jay Ponteri. Gary Wiseman and Hannah Mickunas harmonized with a makeshift capo, eyes closed. Justin Oswald lubed up his body with lotion then climbed in and then out of a giant balloon. Jason Hughes went acoustic with a beautifully quiet folk/pop tune. My co-host, Stephanie Brachmann read two hilarious flash fiction pieces. And my wife, Felicity Fenton with the help of several whirling vacuums, read a list poem about dust.
Dust
Alongside a vacuum ensemble, I'll be reading this poem tonight at the second rendition of The Dreaming Dirt.
The dust of yesterday’s headache
The dust of blue balls in denim
The dust of unanswerable mathematical equations
The dust of hairless trauma
The dust of one broken patella
The dust of tiny people floating from a building
The dust of looming earthquakes
The dust of bed wetting
The dust of fallen figs, uneaten
The dust of a ripped vagina
The dust of no no no
The dust of Are You There God it’s Me Margaret?
The dust of ban-aid tantrums
The dust of Albanian weathermen
The dust of floating in the Ganges with castoffs
The dust of heavy grocery bags
The dust of all couches where breakups happen
The dust of panty lines
The dust of lipstick on teeth
The dust of no more salad dressing
The dust of a father yelling in spandex
The dust of a pillow hitting the floor
The dust of a hand pushing a head further into water
The dust of mistaken identities
The dust of vomit on a surrogate aunt’s tire
The dust of keys lost in car seats
The dust of a mother’s sadness in front of mirrors
The dust of longing for other bodies
The dust of Alessandra De La Roca
The dust of languages unspoken
The dust of strangers climbing into a bed without permission
The dust of gas masks and poison rivers
The dust of white bread wrapped in polka dots
The dust of Mister Ed’s quivering mouth
The dust of casseroles cooked out of shame
The dust of obligations
The dust of September
The dust of puberty in locker rooms
The dust of hot tub jet masturbation
The dust of rummikub with Grandmothers
The dust of Cervantes
The dust of eggs and toast
The dust of projects unfinished
The dust of basement makeout sessions with cousins
The dust of hope
The dust of unknown plant species
The dust of failed astronauts
The dust of blood shed
The dust of hairpins tucked behind the ear
The dust of Gertrude Stein
The dust of Tunisian rosewater
The dust of haggling with small Indian children over the price of bottled water
The dust of a Walmart parking lot
The dust of a mother wearing a Pizza Hut uniform
The dust of two pink lines on a pee stick
The dust of new shoes worn to blisters
The dust of internet ghosts
The dust of post-porn glum
The dust of a horse back ride through a Chilean farm
The dust of cats lost to cars
The dust of US military bombings
The dust of signatures on a line
The dust of halloween candy
The dust of genocide
The dust of a howler monkey
The dust of misguided power
The dust of professional mud wrestling
The dust of Saturday morning cartoons
The dust of ramen noodles and international creamer
The dust of typewritten missives
The dust of hand jobs at the back of a bus
The dust of Coney Island batting cages
The dust of patented air
The dust of crisis
The dust of tulips in full bloom
The dust of murder in front of children
The dust of hangnails
The dust of conflict minerals
The dust of the Paleo diet
The dust of as seen on TV
The dust of The Kardashians
The dust of Lucy the chimp
The dust of rewilding
The dust of horny ferns
The dust of inhabitable space
The dust of homeless camps
The dust of tumors embedded into lobes
The dust of dysfunctional ovaries
The dust of photo booth pretense
The dust of jupiter
The dust of happiness
The dust of yogic poses in the nude
The dust of cathode ray tubes
The dust of Lou Reed
The dust of corporate culture
The dust of subconscious activity
The dust of empathy
The dust of wanderlust
The dust of this place
The dust of breath
The dust of blinking eyes
The dust of tomorrow’s breakfast porridge
The dust of New Jersey hair metal
The dust of ragtime
The dust of birds never known
The dust of names like Millie and Bernice
The dust of walkmans
The dust of always and never
The dust of a scream
The dust of too many cigarettes
The dust of life before motherhood
The dust of war
The dust of male and female
The dust of skin