Britta Kallevang
i i i read
what am i supposed to hold
this load
smells nice
because it’s not looseleaf
i have read today i have read
i haven’t said anything
i have been said by what i read
and reconnoiter many times usually
by different aspects
today i read that my parents can’t give me
what they haven’t yet given me
today they can’t restructure deconstructed scarecrows
i laughed when i got there then realized i
wasn’t part of the story at all in fact i was
infinite
the senior squirrels took a stab at me
they hypothesized that as indelible ink
my blood plods along like an uninhibited
turtle i ooze with sensitivity yet a
hard ribcage-like shield protects my
inner chamber
most inner but so
cavern-like that sound resituates
resonates there i do portend that
reading produced in me soresdetailed vegetables
in broth do shrink
from air tablets
that marble man thinksit’s best to open close
i have an airplane
glad to see you who
reads to connectlogic seems unappealing
somehow in nerve ends
conditions at a hoe-down
invite spiked punchthe same condition came to me
on hands and knees where it put you before the
folder filled to the floor and serious bits of paper scatter.
looking down at them words began to form
i wondered, “out of necessity or desire?”
what serious executive decided it was time
had narrowed down
the options so exceedingly that one was left and only
barely. yes this news factor came loose. it spilled out
in vectors and had no transparency. barely it fit into a
briefcase. the umbrella opens slowly. no wonder
there is an assumed bad luck result to this indoors.
it popped violently the surroundings defiling them
how i am still unclear on.the pond is there
still the ducks lie awake
the mud has sunk
the fish avoid it
only the smallest creatures
like to lurk there
in the practice of it
in the people of it
presence at the pond
the pool people
pretend to partake in mud
ducks exhibit the tenacity
for miniature shrimp
empty pop cans
dislodged decorationdecoration my mule
hurts on the area
where the saddle was strapped
i laughed i am sorry
for the elephants i left
lying around the room
i am sorry i am sorry
i know the mess is awful
i know you find it
cathartic always to be squareserious atavistic endeavors to enlighten the signs of
turn back on you three and then some we all know
that after postmodern is choice. some story
about moths and their suicidal alacrity for light
it (that story) dropped off the face of this planet presumably
several hundred years ago. years
and years ago people walked the earth as if
they were content without fixtures.
i mean there wasn’t even electricity
at one time
fixtures were only a projection on the wall of an
enacted proper supporting role
people had fun with uncertainties back then
and years before that years and years before
there weren’t any
of our kind around