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Carrie Hunter
COUNTENANCECoins dropping. The book that can never be found. How fame has become irrelevant. Everything in life a dictation, or a following. The smile of the clown. The smile of the egg sandwich. Chimes, and climbing up ladders. Discussing what you know, the gaps hover around nearby, not interrupting. The dictator has no voice, which is why he screams so loud. I don’t know what I’m doing or why everyone is eating ice cream. This is why we are wound up in this box. Should we turn right or left? Whether my being the same as you means suicide or patricide.
A CHARM This repetition is a strain. The unmother mothers us all. I know I have anxiety because of the feeling in my hands. Thinking about peaches and cream, the Hardy boys, and bands I have not heard of. What I watch, am apart from, and what I am inside of and cannot see. Imagining a baked potato in this room. Imagining how the trees smell in a different neighborhood. How voices do not sound alike and you do not sound to others how you sound to yourself. The surprise of telepathy comes when you stop wavering. Sunshine is a scorn. Nothing will break forth but something might break through.