By Amy King
The words became librarians, custodians of people
I looked for on the bridge.
I forgot my own face.
I read the book backwards, and
I painted your name in lace
(I drink only the milk of script as beer).
I dislocate all gallery aesthetics,
I carry keys for Baltimore and
Go where no one is my name.
I wish I could sculpt a healing street
from a blanket of guns. The way the sun drops
behind a one-armed cop & we default
to believing in voices. This is the trough of sleep
we draw from. Even gravity works at night.
If I pull your speech on the carpet of impossibility,
will you speak this immediate need for movement?
The immediate need of not drowning in public?
I will walk with the sharks of our pigments
if that’s what inconclusive data requires,
until we leave rooms that hold us apart.
What you see as a small minority, I see
as closer to liberatory. Nothing comes from the center
that doesn’t break most everything in parts.
I break bread with the handwriting of words.
Nothing of appearance is always an illusion.
Lend me your book when you finish
writing it. I’ll be the first to fill in its spaces.
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Saturday was my father's birthday, so after a quiet morning of chores while Adam played tennis with him, we picked up my parents and went to see Money Monster. The events of the story become ludicrous in the last half hour, but it's well acted, Clooney and Roberts have terrific chemistry despite only appearing onscreen together in the first and last scenes, the direction and pacing are very engrossing, and there's a wide range of roles for women.
We took my parents to dinner at Not Your Average Joe's and went back to their house for the rest of the strawberry cake we had the night before. Then Christine, who is just home from the beach, met us at our house and we all watched Equilibrium since she hadn't seen it. As derivative and riddled with plot holes as it is, I never get tired of seeing Bale, Bean, Diggs, and Watson in it. Animals from Brookside Gardens a few weeks ago:
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