Monday, April 24, 2017
My New Yorker Life, April 24, 2017
A connection at first touch.
What if technology could help
on the stink highway.
Name & name
What is your succulent?
Rarely the one you expect.
Trespass when it comes uninvited:
Artists of the south,
the great glass elevator: the world.
This tableau is positioned to contrast
the man behind the mind.
A sturdy stance and a blurred head,
the more ways to wear,
live your life
Towering sets, ornate costumes,
thanks for finding us.
To evoke a single arc
for an original mix
as spare and unconsoled as anything
overgrown with facial hair,
she makes narratives out of gestures,
half-buried in a mound of sand.
Every spit take and sight gag,
what would that sound like?
Blows the stuffing out of seashells,
the temples of the southern state.
Who purchases a book will receive a rose,
the heart of a puntarelle.
alarm at what they say, shock
like a woke hieroglyph.
Trigger the question
in my childhood bedroom,
smell even better in the future.
I wish my life was that free
with the culture, the attire,
the most precious vehicle
people want to see.
Posted by Snezana Zabic at 8:30 PM No comments:
Labels: conceptual writing, fiction, memory, new yorker, poetry
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