The moment you flick the light switch,
the way they scurry from sight
is not art, nor the sound
of them skittering. You have begun
to understand.
Not even the painting
of the lit room, empty. Art is this:
to look at it, the room painted
the moment after
the lifting of the black
and still be able to feel
the roaches there.
I visited the University of Chicago over the weekend. What can I say? The neighborhood is awesome, the school is beautiful, and the program is extremely impressive. Hyde Park is much less intimidating than downtown, and there is so much diversity. There are awesome bookstores, and the whole feel of the place is very intellectual.
after Joan Miro
nothing is important
your tiny heart
stitching itself to the sky,
planets like a girl's fingerprints
children singing about
the sorrow of winglessness,
a heavy secret never to be told
nothing was more important
you became the first
small thing with blood
to love your own face in the mirror
flight
the way you named yourself
after Carla D’Aguanno
Drawn to false sheen, you were
captured by wrongness, couldn’t
look up from the lie.
No little girl wears a dress
into a hayloft, not unless she wants
it torn. What could she want there,
anyway?
Unless it is forbidden,
a pitchfork is boring, those walls
too shiny to be real.
Why pray here, except to beg
for grace?
