Kristen Orser (Chicago, USA): (well enough for a mood)
(well enough for a mood)
Proof:
1. a light snow has fallen everywhere.
2. breathing is not difficult.
3. Thought is fern-like—
February (!) on a knoll is a standing lie. Is shaken
from center to circumference.
Much whispering and (bitter) fruit: Four stillborn—
(blue color in our spleen)
If I appear to be tiptoed, keep only my head:
A large neon red heart
on the side of a castle.
This is an image and also an identical question: Will it rain?
It's already heavy with autumn. Overseas, the polars are an artifice,
there are women who resemble violins and think, in orange color,
about how many times they wanted to have sex but didn't have sex.
When my blood is cold, I think about how I would look at someone
if I had paddled across the ocean to meet them.
(something to have suspicion of)
In the beginning of history, the longer necked women agreed to desire rain. But the myth of the self and, worse, the myth of the sleeping self, cut desire short.
Blue fire: Think a woman's face
Likely daybreak: Bones
Winter : As a symmetrical vocabulary
The frightened sky eats the heads off men—All women become left handed. In this possible moment, the alphabet and the volcano cannot disguise the new
question—What is in the distance?
(wish. often slow)
Sudden impulse is surprise, is—
A seizure brings considerable stillness,
never the romantic fireworks or skin
turning to stone.
In the distance— You! I am accumulating
as the sky loops and arrives
at the time when the daisy slicer has an asthma attack and the child grows a useless wing. I skip a period. I consider changing into a tree, some kind of revolt against the guilt of a double, the many times I've called someone mine.
(to tend arrival)
My not-period is not subjective—The whole day is east, waiting for a detailed subject taking the shape of a fetus. The root, according to the seed, chooses the hour of everyone waking up as the hour to dream a question:
Me is only a disguise?
(I disguise you for me and hold, disappear—)
In the practice of ripening, I pull out my eyes (gradually with me—gradually, gradually) and show you the third and innermost layer of tissue.
(No, I haven't bled this month and yesterday was parallel,
but we acted for tomorrow. For—The space between our
two coasts, traced by our circling toes in the air, is the space
we seek to obtain.)
(finishing foot)
If atmosphere carries,
the layer of the flower will keep our malignant heads in motion:
It's the lower part of me that thinks it's a boy,
but I am a pear. I consider a similar question:
What (who?) is the pursuant?
The lost swan forgets its own body and withdraws into soft porcelain. It isn't until spring when someone arrives to disappoint the sitting lily. To ask a dense question about infinity.
© Kristen Orser 2009
Proof:
1. a light snow has fallen everywhere.
2. breathing is not difficult.
3. Thought is fern-like—
February (!) on a knoll is a standing lie. Is shaken
from center to circumference.
Much whispering and (bitter) fruit: Four stillborn—
(blue color in our spleen)
If I appear to be tiptoed, keep only my head:
A large neon red heart
on the side of a castle.
This is an image and also an identical question: Will it rain?
It's already heavy with autumn. Overseas, the polars are an artifice,
there are women who resemble violins and think, in orange color,
about how many times they wanted to have sex but didn't have sex.
When my blood is cold, I think about how I would look at someone
if I had paddled across the ocean to meet them.
(something to have suspicion of)
In the beginning of history, the longer necked women agreed to desire rain. But the myth of the self and, worse, the myth of the sleeping self, cut desire short.
Blue fire: Think a woman's face
Likely daybreak: Bones
Winter : As a symmetrical vocabulary
The frightened sky eats the heads off men—All women become left handed. In this possible moment, the alphabet and the volcano cannot disguise the new
question—What is in the distance?
(wish. often slow)
Sudden impulse is surprise, is—
A seizure brings considerable stillness,
never the romantic fireworks or skin
turning to stone.
In the distance— You! I am accumulating
as the sky loops and arrives
at the time when the daisy slicer has an asthma attack and the child grows a useless wing. I skip a period. I consider changing into a tree, some kind of revolt against the guilt of a double, the many times I've called someone mine.
(to tend arrival)
My not-period is not subjective—The whole day is east, waiting for a detailed subject taking the shape of a fetus. The root, according to the seed, chooses the hour of everyone waking up as the hour to dream a question:
Me is only a disguise?
(I disguise you for me and hold, disappear—)
In the practice of ripening, I pull out my eyes (gradually with me—gradually, gradually) and show you the third and innermost layer of tissue.
(No, I haven't bled this month and yesterday was parallel,
but we acted for tomorrow. For—The space between our
two coasts, traced by our circling toes in the air, is the space
we seek to obtain.)
(finishing foot)
If atmosphere carries,
the layer of the flower will keep our malignant heads in motion:
It's the lower part of me that thinks it's a boy,
but I am a pear. I consider a similar question:
What (who?) is the pursuant?
The lost swan forgets its own body and withdraws into soft porcelain. It isn't until spring when someone arrives to disappoint the sitting lily. To ask a dense question about infinity.
© Kristen Orser 2009
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