Applying for a second nannying job I accidentally stumbled into the United Pervs Association. And by this I mean, to all you strangers -- please don't call me pretending to have children when really you just want to find out what kind of stockings I wear. I'm afraid one day I'll end up in skittle sized pieces in the trunk of some middle-aged mans car on my way to a garbage dump in New Jersey.
I've been on a bit of a poetry holiday for the past month, because I was starting to get a little crazy/obsessed, but there's nothing like returning to a loved one after not seeing them for a while, and so here's the first thing I've written since the beginning of the year:
The Found World
The terror of finding a small world unexpectedly. Something safe and contained, needing nothing. A definition of containment: can be found rising up inside an oxygen tank, blinking a ship homeward, making peace treaties with all mirrored surfaces, but not in love.
It's easy enough to wear nude colored clothing, to carry bullets with no gun, to play hide and seek with your shadow. But to remember how to make it back home?
The found world is small as a heart-cell, is expanding, contracting in awkward mis-beats. Making innocent mistakes, trying to become real.
A definition of real: can be found keeping a hologram upright. This world is not a fairytale equation, nor tangible, or understandable. Unless you understand the eternity of using a calculator to drink a glass of milk. More specifically – a whole world cut in half repeatedly can never disappear. This is why you trust it.
Inside there is an actual human being. Or a photocopy that's convincing enough. He's devoted his life to this place. Instead of sleep he climbs out of the heart chamber, travels the dark tunnels of the body, making trails for foreigners. Leaves bread crumbs that lead back to the heart.
When tourists visit they take snap shots but never develop them. They forget what they were doing there in the first place, and where they've come from.
And here is a little pre-Spring present for you all, Sampson Starkweather's beautiful piece: The Photograph.
I've gotta run out now and find myself some Eskimo clothes and a couple pet penguins, because I'm leaving for Buffalo on Thursday, brr! I mean: yay!