Here
A Chapbook Project
A Chapbook Project
 | |
Artist Statement
These poems were never meant to be interactive. The moments of broken/stuttered text seemed to have the affect that I wanted, with my own ear and reading voice, but as workshop and conversations about the poems continued the problems of the stuttered text began to emerge. It was troublesome to me that when others read my work they did not always read the syllables completely, or they would skip or just stop at the broken text. I was troubled with the inability for the words to act as both words and stutters.
The words that are broken are part of an exploration of trauma in language. Their significance in the poems is not important, it is not significant that a word like bike gets broken, it is significant that there is brokenness, loss, haulting, stumbling, a moment where the retelling of the story is stopped by memory or a spin from the original place. Sometimes the broken text turns the story from one place to another and sometimes it does not.
So, the decision to make the traumatic speak interactive is interesting for several reasons. One, it takes away from the striking moment on the page when the reader hits a wall of syllabic breakdown and must stumble through the words – this is problematic because suddenly the choice to read or not to read those broken texts is handed to the reader. I no longer have control over whether or not my reader has to read the syllabic breakdowns. With the interactive text, the reader can read the text either way. But, an aspect most interesting is now the reader becomes a voyeur of the stutter – they can either take the text for what it is and know that there is a traumatic breakdown involved, or they can acknowledge the stutter, by mousing over the text and reading it appropriately, or watching the text break itself down; which also hints at an interesting point where text no longer acts as language, it now takes the form of image. It is no longer brought into action by speaking, it can exist with just looking.
Finally, the process of the project itself was amazing. The strategy of html, in correspondence with my web host, was a complicated matter, as my host had limits on my html usage. In addition, writing html became a kind of addition of words that became mathematical and scientific, and through which process, presented a piece of art. The formula to create the mouse-over was difficult, as I had never written html code before. As I continued the project I became excited at the idea of hiding more and more things and revealing more and more pieces within the poems. In the end, I wanted to have every poem hidden within certain words, I wanted to reveal the html process within the process of hiding, and excavating. The project is overwhelming, and it isn't anywhere near over, and I am excited to have been given an opportunity to explore this aspect of my poetry!!
Thank you,
Rachelle
These poems were never meant to be interactive. The moments of broken/stuttered text seemed to have the affect that I wanted, with my own ear and reading voice, but as workshop and conversations about the poems continued the problems of the stuttered text began to emerge. It was troublesome to me that when others read my work they did not always read the syllables completely, or they would skip or just stop at the broken text. I was troubled with the inability for the words to act as both words and stutters.
The words that are broken are part of an exploration of trauma in language. Their significance in the poems is not important, it is not significant that a word like bike gets broken, it is significant that there is brokenness, loss, haulting, stumbling, a moment where the retelling of the story is stopped by memory or a spin from the original place. Sometimes the broken text turns the story from one place to another and sometimes it does not.
So, the decision to make the traumatic speak interactive is interesting for several reasons. One, it takes away from the striking moment on the page when the reader hits a wall of syllabic breakdown and must stumble through the words – this is problematic because suddenly the choice to read or not to read those broken texts is handed to the reader. I no longer have control over whether or not my reader has to read the syllabic breakdowns. With the interactive text, the reader can read the text either way. But, an aspect most interesting is now the reader becomes a voyeur of the stutter – they can either take the text for what it is and know that there is a traumatic breakdown involved, or they can acknowledge the stutter, by mousing over the text and reading it appropriately, or watching the text break itself down; which also hints at an interesting point where text no longer acts as language, it now takes the form of image. It is no longer brought into action by speaking, it can exist with just looking.
Finally, the process of the project itself was amazing. The strategy of html, in correspondence with my web host, was a complicated matter, as my host had limits on my html usage. In addition, writing html became a kind of addition of words that became mathematical and scientific, and through which process, presented a piece of art. The formula to create the mouse-over was difficult, as I had never written html code before. As I continued the project I became excited at the idea of hiding more and more things and revealing more and more pieces within the poems. In the end, I wanted to have every poem hidden within certain words, I wanted to reveal the html process within the process of hiding, and excavating. The project is overwhelming, and it isn't anywhere near over, and I am excited to have been given an opportunity to explore this aspect of my poetry!!
Thank you,
Rachelle
Preface
It begins here, four syllables in, and like lobed leaves of an artichoke we pull away from a center. A woman/child/girl is uprooted from herself and forced into worlds where language and places and scenes are continually recreated, retold, and revisited for the sake of the story. Language loops and words are forced to add up syllogistically, where syllogism is impossible. Some moments/thoughts/words are sewn tight to adduce the narrative and some hang like the meat of an unripe mango grasping to its husk.
This language is migratory, oscillating between the worlds of complete thought, phonetic sensibility, bilingual cognitive response, and the trauma of speech. The places of migration are coital, inhabiting each other and then pulling away, all the while undeviating from their moments as setting for a retelling/revisiting.
The physicality of place and pleasure are traumatized by the imposition of expectation and emotional prepubescence: abuse is confused by the pleasure of the act. The trauma of retelling is activated by the emotions of memory. There is an inability for language to surface, and least of all, break through the surface into coherence. She wants to tell you a story, she says, but she places her hand over the plump parts of her pelvis and opens her skin, she can't remember what it feels like, to say words that make a body shake, she puts you in her mouth, she puts you in her mouth.
Note
Scroll the mouse over the lines of text.
ONE |
I picked up my bike from
I picked up my bike from the bike shop
from the bike shop. I picked up my bike from the shop today and rode
it in the rain in the Pittsburgh, the burgh
the Pittsburgh rain. The front of my peach
tank top was soaked and cinched in the triangle of my crotch,
my cunt-tucked-dress sopping wet I straddled
the seat and remembered you when you fixed my pipes. My
clogged bath tub you straddled the rim of the tub. You asked me
for a paper towel I gave you this: you laid me down moved
your hands from my toes to my clitoris. Listen
to the water push through the pipes. I purge like, I purge ,
I purge like, drain. My mucus membrane lips cupping your skin, mount your thigh and
suctioned tight like my blue sweater soaked with
rain, drain water.
from the bike shop. I picked up my bike from the shop today and rode
it in the rain in the Pittsburgh, the burgh
the Pittsburgh rain. The front of my peach
tank top was soaked and cinched in the triangle of my crotch,
my cunt-tucked-dress sopping wet I straddled
the seat and remembered you when you fixed my pipes. My
clogged bath tub you straddled the rim of the tub. You asked me
for a paper towel I gave you this: you laid me down moved
your hands from my toes to my clitoris. Listen
to the water push through the pipes. I purge like, I purge ,
I purge like, drain. My mucus membrane lips cupping your skin, mount your thigh and
suctioned tight like my blue sweater soaked with
rain, drain water.
Here is a picture of
you take your hand from my neck
and cup my breasts.
you take your hand from my neck
and cup my breasts.
When you tied me to the tree in Schenley I could feel the bark splinter
my calves, draw her skin the way you pushed yourself up and her body,
the way your lessons always lessen your lessons always shove themselves
her body. When, in Schenley, you pushed your story her mouth she couldn't
help but laugh. You tied me to the tree, the way you tied the knife to the end
of the stick, to make a spear, the way you tied, you tied, and jabbed a small
raccoon. You watched her face, like me, mister g, she is nothing more than
a sad story.
my calves, draw her skin the way you pushed yourself up and her body,
the way your lessons always lessen your lessons always shove themselves
her body. When, in Schenley, you pushed your story her mouth she couldn't
help but laugh. You tied me to the tree, the way you tied the knife to the end
of the stick, to make a spear, the way you tied, you tied, and jabbed a small
raccoon. You watched her face, like me, mister g, she is nothing more than
a sad story.
We line our birds in a row, you point to the Mourning Dove.
Here's a picture of the Mourning Dove
between the rungs of the
playground climber I saw a man
who looked like you
looked ten years from now.
Here's a picture of the Mourning Dove
between the rungs of the
playground climber I saw a man
who looked like you
looked ten years from now.
I walked passed
I walked passed the synagogue on Fifth avenue for you and
passed the boy's Catholic school. I stopped under the ginkgo tree
fanned leaves dancing in the night sky, yellow light, street light, almost
orange like don't forget the street signs. I took a picture of the street
sign that read "Fifth Avenue" for you and watched the Carnegie Music
Hall statues covered in white sheets, dust sheets, dusk weeks, she can't
sleep. Here in Pittsburgh, there are protesters. Here I walk on
Fifth Avenue for you. Here I stop beneath the ginkgo tree and
think of street signs, I walk passed the catholic school, past the Rodef Shalom,
I stop beneath the layer of light and say my house shall be a house of prayer, for
people, For the people
passed the boy's Catholic school. I stopped under the ginkgo tree
fanned leaves dancing in the night sky, yellow light, street light, almost
orange like don't forget the street signs. I took a picture of the street
sign that read "Fifth Avenue" for you and watched the Carnegie Music
Hall statues covered in white sheets, dust sheets, dusk weeks, she can't
sleep. Here in Pittsburgh, there are protesters. Here I walk on
Fifth Avenue for you. Here I stop beneath the ginkgo tree and
think of street signs, I walk passed the catholic school, past the Rodef Shalom,
I stop beneath the layer of light and say my house shall be a house of prayer, for
people, For the people
Here's a picture of
the man who looks like you
ten years from now. I watch as he strolls
under the Ginkgo tree, I gaunt my
fists and bleat into the street.
the man who looks like you
ten years from now. I watch as he strolls
under the Ginkgo tree, I gaunt my
fists and bleat into the street.
My cousin told me
My cousin told me about them los postes para Negros.
His mouth widened to a smile, a Nigger Pole. He said it's the pipe
that sticks out from the telephone pole, where the wire
diagonals down into a cement hole. Like this, he says. That's a
bad word I say I say that's a bad word. He pulls my hand and puts
it down his pants.
His mouth widened to a smile, a Nigger Pole. He said it's the pipe
that sticks out from the telephone pole, where the wire
diagonals down into a cement hole. Like this, he says. That's a
bad word I say I say that's a bad word. He pulls my hand and puts
it down his pants.
Here's a picture of
You look in the reflection of
the bulbs above us and
you look naked in this light
I sit on the toilet and wipe
You look in the reflection of
the bulbs above us and
you look naked in this light
I sit on the toilet and wipe
We can't talk about
We can't talk about fire you think of right and I think the city can't
stop from popping from the tunnels. She is losing her brother, thinks of
losing her lovers she stands on the cement circles overlooking the city and
you think of snap photo. Turn left snap photo. Snap image, bit image. Pop,
image, you think push button picture. Here in Pittsburgh women like me and
her are left to stand on cement cylinders. They stand above the city .
Herein Pittsburgh the buses and the Black babies plopping into the laps of mothers
from the sway of the street are so pretty. Petty. She is petty with her dress and face.
stop from popping from the tunnels. She is losing her brother, thinks of
losing her lovers she stands on the cement circles overlooking the city and
you think of snap photo. Turn left snap photo. Snap image, bit image. Pop,
image, you think push button picture. Here in Pittsburgh women like me and
her are left to stand on cement cylinders. They stand above the city .
Herein Pittsburgh the buses and the Black babies plopping into the laps of mothers
from the sway of the street are so pretty. Petty. She is petty with her dress and face.
Here's a picture of you
take me in, suture the uterus
rig it like a fishing lure.
take me in, suture the uterus
rig it like a fishing lure.
We wait for her to toddle
into the edge of the table. There are ways to walk on Fifth Avenue,
in Pittsburgh, in Fall. We watch for us - I pass up pumpkins on Negley,
you pull pipes from your pickup. There are ginkgo trees, yes, fanned
leaves. I tell you let's buy a house on Amberson Avenue you fish in your
pocket and pull out.
We have an agreement you say, I turn away. There are
times when I ride my bike and remember
that you forgot to install the kick stand. I hike the pant
leg up my right to peddle without catching the gear shift, she rides
her bike, you know she does. Places fuchsia carnations in
a Mexican soda bottle, father.
She places some carnations, takes the flower
and puts it in an empty soda bottle, a towel to wipe the
bottle, weary of the vase, weary,
he wears her on his workshirt.
times when I ride my bike and remember
that you forgot to install the kick stand. I hike the pant
leg up my right to peddle without catching the gear shift, she rides
her bike, you know she does. Places fuchsia carnations in
a Mexican soda bottle, father.
She places some carnations, takes the flower
and puts it in an empty soda bottle, a towel to wipe the
bottle, weary of the vase, weary,
he wears her on his workshirt.
Have you found your
Have you found your home, bending grass, unclenching
clasps. I send you me, I was laying in the sun in
Schenley. No bikini, only, in you pull my ankles. Unsnap and pinch to
unclench to unclench you
pinch and unclench your clench your teeth at a photo
of my tits, your hands stretching, bending the blades
of grass.
clasps. I send you me, I was laying in the sun in
Schenley. No bikini, only, in you pull my ankles. Unsnap and pinch to
unclench to unclench you
pinch and unclench your clench your teeth at a photo
of my tits, your hands stretching, bending the blades
of grass.
Here's a picture of me
Standing on the Sixth Street Bridge
a Liar. Like you.
Here's a picture of me
Standing on the Sixth Street Bridge
Alone. Like you.
Here's a picture of me
Sitting on the Sixth Street Bridge
Begging for change.
TWO
Did you take small scissors and snip the sutures I set into your skin?
Find the patch of dark brown, pulps of thick black curls peep from she
found it. I took the knife, and sliced a thin layer of brown, it curled at the
blade like the rind of a fresh carrot under a peeler - I curled as the
blade slid under the first three layers. So she found the patch? She
put her fingers there, she ran them 'round the edge and asked
Standing on the Sixth Street Bridge
a Liar. Like you.
Here's a picture of me
Standing on the Sixth Street Bridge
Alone. Like you.
Here's a picture of me
Sitting on the Sixth Street Bridge
Begging for change.
TWO
Did you take small scissors and snip the sutures I set into your skin?
Find the patch of dark brown, pulps of thick black curls peep from she
found it. I took the knife, and sliced a thin layer of brown, it curled at the
blade like the rind of a fresh carrot under a peeler - I curled as the
blade slid under the first three layers. So she found the patch? She
put her fingers there, she ran them 'round the edge and asked
When I asked you
When I asked you if you me yet. You when I asked you if you me yet I
told you I wasn't growing my hymen back. When I feel the bruise from the bicycle
seat pulsing my inner thighs I remember the first time I stayed above you
with the tip of your penis rubbing my. When I asked you if you me yet
you closed your eyes and remembered when you pressed yourself against my inner
thigh and I said only me only me when I said only me mister g only me you and
me and her and you and her and you kiss her neck and tell me. It's not been a
year and here here in here.
told you I wasn't growing my hymen back. When I feel the bruise from the bicycle
seat pulsing my inner thighs I remember the first time I stayed above you
with the tip of your penis rubbing my. When I asked you if you me yet
you closed your eyes and remembered when you pressed yourself against my inner
thigh and I said only me only me when I said only me mister g only me you and
me and her and you and her and you kiss her neck and tell me. It's not been a
year and here here in here.
I've faced the lilac tulips towards the French windows and like the ears of
small children to a sparkling story they bend. If we lay in my bed we
can see their tips sipping in the rain and sun through the rectangles of
the dingy screen through the smell of green compost expelled from the
Korean stink bugs. If you lay in my bed you can see the tips of the tulips
sip in the sun through the geometric space of dust and the sun is
resting on my bed as it passes into the west. Watch them wither into
small crusty bulbs with brown streaks. Watch them bend towards Pittsburgh
looking for the city lights but only finding an empty street
where she waits for us to meet.
small children to a sparkling story they bend. If we lay in my bed we
can see their tips sipping in the rain and sun through the rectangles of
the dingy screen through the smell of green compost expelled from the
Korean stink bugs. If you lay in my bed you can see the tips of the tulips
sip in the sun through the geometric space of dust and the sun is
resting on my bed as it passes into the west. Watch them wither into
small crusty bulbs with brown streaks. Watch them bend towards Pittsburgh
looking for the city lights but only finding an empty street
where she waits for us to meet.
You once told me
You once told me that you loved the me that writes and
the me that's wrecked. When my nose is at your pelvis and you dip your penis
down my throat which woman is wincing? which woman's dark eyes are
watching your lips curl push your hand to place a tighter grip at the base of
her neck.
the me that's wrecked. When my nose is at your pelvis and you dip your penis
down my throat which woman is wincing? which woman's dark eyes are
watching your lips curl push your hand to place a tighter grip at the base of
her neck.
There are ways to ride
There are ways to ride a bike in the city. Ways to
pull yourself through the city. When you're available
give me a call I'll brake for our fingers to
teeth together like your zipper together and then
not. How can you see the pattern when the blood
when the blood blocks the ink, you wink at
me and I think about how some
people say restaurant with out the middle syllable.
pull yourself through the city. When you're available
give me a call I'll brake for our fingers to
teeth together like your zipper together and then
not. How can you see the pattern when the blood
when the blood blocks the ink, you wink at
me and I think about how some
people say restaurant with out the middle syllable.
I'm familiar with the taste of you driving in your blue
pickup. There are buses on fifth the five hundred rolls in
at Aiken and I wait for it to pass and hope you haven't slid by
without saying hello. We can't wait much longer for
the days to shade from sunlight. The winter is coming you tell me
you make me sit on your hips in bed, make take the crunch from
your kidneys, you say, my body is sore today. I walk from work home
and smack my lips together when I feel the charcoal wall on my right
I taste the green mold specs, I take a mirror to the slit between my legs.
I tried to put the basket on the bike today. Father, I bought the basket from the men from the, dad, I bought the basket from men at Iron City Bikes, this city is this city is meaty. I rode it today home with a basket sticking out of my pack.
Father, I cried when I carried the heavy bike up my spiral steps. Can you see this city little girl city, sitting on my roof squawking down at your little girl, she's breached, her feet are coming out first, her head is lost inside, her head with the basket, carrying in the backpack.
THREE
<script type="text/javascript"> var oldText=""; function replaceText(elem, newText) { oldText=elem.firstChild.data; elem.firstChild.data=newText; } function restoreText(elem) { elem.firstChild.data=oldText; } </script> I picked up my bike from the <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'bi ke');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">bike</span> shop <br /> from the <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'b buh ike');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">bike</span> shop. I picked up my bike from the shop today and rode <br /> it in the rain in the Pittsburgh, the burgh width<br /> the Pittsburgh rain. The front of my peach <br /> tank top was soaked and cinched in the triangle of my crotch, <br /> my cunt-tucked-dress sopping wet I straddled <br /> the seat and remembered you when you fixed my pipes. My <br /> <other>clogged bath tub you straddled the <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'rim rim tub rim');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">rim</span> of the tub. You asked me <br /> for a paper towel I gave you this: you laid me down moved <br /> your hands from my toes to my clitoris. Listen <br /> to the water push through the pipes. I purge like, I purge , <br /> I purge like, drain. My mucus membrane lips cupping your skin, mount your thigh and <br /> suctioned tight like her blue sweater soaked with <br /> <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'ray, rah, da, dra');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">rain, drain</span> water.
<script type="text/javascript"> var oldText=""; function replaceText(elem, newText) { oldText=elem.firstChild.data; elem.firstChild.data=newText; } function restoreText(elem) { ele.firstChild.data=oldText; } <other></script> I walked passed the synagogue on Fifth avenue for you and br /> passed the boy's Catholic school.<other> I stopped under the ginkgo tree <br /> fanned leaves dancing in the night sky, yellow light, street light, almost <br /> orange like don't forget the street signs. I took a picture of the street <br /> sign that read "Fifth Avenue" for you and watched the Carnegie Music <br /> Hall statues covered in white sheets, dust sheets, dusk weeks, she can't <br /> sleep. Here in Pittsburgh, there are protesters. <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'He he hear');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">Here</span> I walk on <br /> Fifth Avenue for you. <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'He he hear');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">Here</span> I stop beneath the ginkgo tree and <br /> think of street signs, I walk passed the catholic school, past the Rodef Shalom, <br /> I stop beneath the layer of light and say my house shall be a house of prayer, for <br /> people, <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'Fa fa for people');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">For the people</span>
<script type="text/javascript"> var oldText=""; fosterunction replaceText(elem, newText) { oldText=elem.firstChild.data; elem.firstChild.data=newText; } function restoreText(elem) { elem.firstChild.data=oldText; } </script> My cousin told me about them los postes para Negros. <br /> His mouth widened to a smile, a Nigger Pole. He said it's the pipe <br /> that sticks out from the telephone pole, where the wire <br /> diagonals down into a cement hole. Like this, he says. That's a <br /> bad word I say I say that's a <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'BAAAA aaaaaad');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">other<bad</span> word. He pulls my hand and puts <br /> it down his pants.
<script type="text/javascript"> var oldText=""; function replaceText(elem, newText) { oldText=elem.firstChild.data; elem.firstChild.data=newText; } function restoreText(elem) { elem.firstChild.data=oldText; } </script> We can't talk about <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'fa fa fa aye');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">fire</span> you think of right and I think the city can't <br /> stop from popping from the tunnels. She is losing her brother, thinks of <br /> losing her lovers she stands on the cement circles overlooking the city and <br /> you think of snap photo. Turn left snap photo. Snap image, bit image. Pop, <br /> image, you think push button picture. <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'He he he hear');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">Here</span>in Pittsburgh women like me and <br /> <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'he');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">her</span> are left to stand on cement cylinders. They stand above the <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'sa sa ss sa si');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">city</span> . <br /> <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'He he he hear');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">Here</span>in Pittsburgh the buses and the Black babies plopping into the laps of mothers <br /> from the sway of the street are so pretty. Petty. She is petty with her dress and face.
<script type="text/javascript"> var oldText=""; function replaceText(elem, newText) { oldText=elem.firstChild.data; elem.firstChild.data=newText; } function restoreText(elem) { elem.firstChild.data=oldText; } </script> Have you found your home, bending grass, unclenching <br /> clasps. I send you me, I was laying in the sun in <br /> Schenley. No bikini, only, in you pull my ankles. Unsnap and pinch to <br /> <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'un un uncl cle uncle');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">unclench</span> to unclench you <br /> pinch and unclench your clench your teeth at a photo <br /> of my tits, your hands stretching, bending the blades <br /> of grass. <script type="text/javascript">var oldText="";
function replaceText(elem, newText) {oldText=elem.firstChild.data;elem.firstChild.data=newText;}function restoreText(elem) {elem.firstChild.data=oldText;}</script>
When I asked you if you me yet. <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'You when I asked you if you You when I asked you if you');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">You when I asked you if you</span> me yet I <br /> told you I wasn't growing my hymen back. When I feel the bruise from the bicycle <br /> seat pulsing my inner thighs I remember the first time I stayed above you <br /> with the tip of your penis rubbing my. When I asked you if you me yet <br /> you closed your eyes and remembered when you pressed yourself against my inner <br /> thigh and I said only me only me when I said only me mister g only me you and <br /> me and her and you and her and you kiss her neck and tell me. It's not been a <br /> year and here here in here. <br /><script type="text/javascript">var oldText="";function replaceText(elem, newText){oldText=elem.firstChild.data;elem.firstChild.data=newText;
}function restoreText(elem) {elem.firstChild.data=oldText;}</script>
I've faced the lilac tulips towards the French windows and like the ears of <br /> small children to a sparkling story they bend. If we lay in my bed we <br /> can see their <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'ti, ta te tips sa sa sip');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">tips sipping</span> in the rain and sun through the rectangles of <br /> the dingy screen through the smell of green compost expelled from the <br /> Korean stink bugs. If you lay in my bed you can see the tips of the tulips <br /> sip in the sun through the geometric space of dust and the sun is <br />resting on my bed as it passes into the west. Watch them wither into<br /> small crusty bulbs with brown streaks. Watch them bend towards Pittsburgh <br /> looking for the city lights but only finding an empty street <br />where she waits for us to meet.
<script type="text/javascript">var oldText="";function replaceText(elem, newText) {oldText=elem.firstChild.data;elem.firstChild.data=newText;
}function restoreText(elem) {elem.firstChild.data=oldText;
}</script>You once told me that you loved the <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'she the her the me the her she you love the she');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">me</span> that writes and <br />
the <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'she the her the me the her she you love the she');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">me</span> that's wrecked. When my nose is at your pelvis and you dip your penis <br /> down my throat which woman is wincing? which woman's dark eyes are <br /> watching your lips curl push your hand to place a tighter grip at the base of <br /> her neck.<script type="text/javascript">
var oldText="";function replaceText(elem, newText) {
oldText=elem.firstChild.data;elem.firstChild.data=newText;
}function restoreText(elem) {
elem.firstChild.data=oldText;</script>
There are ways to ride a bike in the city. Ways to <br /> pull yourself through the city. When you're available <br /> give me a <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'ca a ka a ca');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">call</span> I'll brake for our fingers to <br /> teeth together like your zipper together and then <br />
not. How can you see the pattern when the blood <br /> when
the <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'bul the blo the');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">blood</span> blocks the ink, you wink at <br /> me and I think about how some <br />
people say <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'rést°raǓnt');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">restaurant</span> with out the middle syllable.
<script type="text/javascript"> var oldText=""; function replaceText(elem, newText) { oldText=elem.firstChild.data; elem.firstChild.data=newText; } function restoreText(elem) { elem.firstChild.data=oldText; } </script> I picked up my bike from the <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'bi ke');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">bike</span> shop <br /> from the <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'b buh ike');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">bike</span> shop. I picked up my bike from the shop today and rode <br /> it in the rain in the Pittsburgh, the burgh width<br /> the Pittsburgh rain. The front of my peach <br /> tank top was soaked and cinched in the triangle of my crotch, <br /> my cunt-tucked-dress sopping wet I straddled <br /> the seat and remembered you when you fixed my pipes. My <br /> <other>clogged bath tub you straddled the <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'rim rim tub rim');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">rim</span> of the tub. You asked me <br /> for a paper towel I gave you this: you laid me down moved <br /> your hands from my toes to my clitoris. Listen <br /> to the water push through the pipes. I purge like, I purge , <br /> I purge like, drain. My mucus membrane lips cupping your skin, mount your thigh and <br /> suctioned tight like her blue sweater soaked with <br /> <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'ray, rah, da, dra');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">rain, drain</span> water.
<script type="text/javascript"> var oldText=""; function replaceText(elem, newText) { oldText=elem.firstChild.data; elem.firstChild.data=newText; } function restoreText(elem) { ele.firstChild.data=oldText; } <other></script> I walked passed the synagogue on Fifth avenue for you and br /> passed the boy's Catholic school.<other> I stopped under the ginkgo tree <br /> fanned leaves dancing in the night sky, yellow light, street light, almost <br /> orange like don't forget the street signs. I took a picture of the street <br /> sign that read "Fifth Avenue" for you and watched the Carnegie Music <br /> Hall statues covered in white sheets, dust sheets, dusk weeks, she can't <br /> sleep. Here in Pittsburgh, there are protesters. <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'He he hear');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">Here</span> I walk on <br /> Fifth Avenue for you. <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'He he hear');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">Here</span> I stop beneath the ginkgo tree and <br /> think of street signs, I walk passed the catholic school, past the Rodef Shalom, <br /> I stop beneath the layer of light and say my house shall be a house of prayer, for <br /> people, <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'Fa fa for people');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">For the people</span>
<script type="text/javascript"> var oldText=""; fosterunction replaceText(elem, newText) { oldText=elem.firstChild.data; elem.firstChild.data=newText; } function restoreText(elem) { elem.firstChild.data=oldText; } </script> My cousin told me about them los postes para Negros. <br /> His mouth widened to a smile, a Nigger Pole. He said it's the pipe <br /> that sticks out from the telephone pole, where the wire <br /> diagonals down into a cement hole. Like this, he says. That's a <br /> bad word I say I say that's a <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'BAAAA aaaaaad');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">other<bad</span> word. He pulls my hand and puts <br /> it down his pants.
<script type="text/javascript"> var oldText=""; function replaceText(elem, newText) { oldText=elem.firstChild.data; elem.firstChild.data=newText; } function restoreText(elem) { elem.firstChild.data=oldText; } </script> We can't talk about <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'fa fa fa aye');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">fire</span> you think of right and I think the city can't <br /> stop from popping from the tunnels. She is losing her brother, thinks of <br /> losing her lovers she stands on the cement circles overlooking the city and <br /> you think of snap photo. Turn left snap photo. Snap image, bit image. Pop, <br /> image, you think push button picture. <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'He he he hear');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">Here</span>in Pittsburgh women like me and <br /> <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'he');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">her</span> are left to stand on cement cylinders. They stand above the <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'sa sa ss sa si');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">city</span> . <br /> <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'He he he hear');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">Here</span>in Pittsburgh the buses and the Black babies plopping into the laps of mothers <br /> from the sway of the street are so pretty. Petty. She is petty with her dress and face.
<script type="text/javascript"> var oldText=""; function replaceText(elem, newText) { oldText=elem.firstChild.data; elem.firstChild.data=newText; } function restoreText(elem) { elem.firstChild.data=oldText; } </script> Have you found your home, bending grass, unclenching <br /> clasps. I send you me, I was laying in the sun in <br /> Schenley. No bikini, only, in you pull my ankles. Unsnap and pinch to <br /> <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'un un uncl cle uncle');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">unclench</span> to unclench you <br /> pinch and unclench your clench your teeth at a photo <br /> of my tits, your hands stretching, bending the blades <br /> of grass. <script type="text/javascript">var oldText="";
function replaceText(elem, newText) {oldText=elem.firstChild.data;elem.firstChild.data=newText;}function restoreText(elem) {elem.firstChild.data=oldText;}</script>
When I asked you if you me yet. <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'You when I asked you if you You when I asked you if you');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">You when I asked you if you</span> me yet I <br /> told you I wasn't growing my hymen back. When I feel the bruise from the bicycle <br /> seat pulsing my inner thighs I remember the first time I stayed above you <br /> with the tip of your penis rubbing my. When I asked you if you me yet <br /> you closed your eyes and remembered when you pressed yourself against my inner <br /> thigh and I said only me only me when I said only me mister g only me you and <br /> me and her and you and her and you kiss her neck and tell me. It's not been a <br /> year and here here in here. <br /><script type="text/javascript">var oldText="";function replaceText(elem, newText){oldText=elem.firstChild.data;elem.firstChild.data=newText;
}function restoreText(elem) {elem.firstChild.data=oldText;}</script>
I've faced the lilac tulips towards the French windows and like the ears of <br /> small children to a sparkling story they bend. If we lay in my bed we <br /> can see their <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'ti, ta te tips sa sa sip');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">tips sipping</span> in the rain and sun through the rectangles of <br /> the dingy screen through the smell of green compost expelled from the <br /> Korean stink bugs. If you lay in my bed you can see the tips of the tulips <br /> sip in the sun through the geometric space of dust and the sun is <br />resting on my bed as it passes into the west. Watch them wither into<br /> small crusty bulbs with brown streaks. Watch them bend towards Pittsburgh <br /> looking for the city lights but only finding an empty street <br />where she waits for us to meet.
<script type="text/javascript">var oldText="";function replaceText(elem, newText) {oldText=elem.firstChild.data;elem.firstChild.data=newText;
}function restoreText(elem) {elem.firstChild.data=oldText;
}</script>You once told me that you loved the <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'she the her the me the her she you love the she');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">me</span> that writes and <br />
the <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'she the her the me the her she you love the she');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">me</span> that's wrecked. When my nose is at your pelvis and you dip your penis <br /> down my throat which woman is wincing? which woman's dark eyes are <br /> watching your lips curl push your hand to place a tighter grip at the base of <br /> her neck.<script type="text/javascript">
var oldText="";function replaceText(elem, newText) {
oldText=elem.firstChild.data;elem.firstChild.data=newText;
}function restoreText(elem) {
elem.firstChild.data=oldText;</script>
There are ways to ride a bike in the city. Ways to <br /> pull yourself through the city. When you're available <br /> give me a <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'ca a ka a ca');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">call</span> I'll brake for our fingers to <br /> teeth together like your zipper together and then <br />
not. How can you see the pattern when the blood <br /> when
the <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'bul the blo the');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">blood</span> blocks the ink, you wink at <br /> me and I think about how some <br />
people say <span onmouseover="replaceText(this, 'rést°raǓnt');" onmouseout="restoreText(this)">restaurant</span> with out the middle syllable.
END
