An Appeal for Kinesics

Kristen Orser
Take the hand coming out of my mind as a sort of raw apparition of my inside—the same inside surrounded with rusting bicycles and trucks parts, so there is something to put together, so there is something to have.  I've never held a heart in my hands.  

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I've gone without dinner, but not without words.  

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I fall out of myself.  In disappearing, I am stitching something together for reappearance.  Chant—it  is, afterall, the thing in and of itself that keeps us quietly sitting, quietly unmaking our sureness.  

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Sure, I have a full face, but it is small enough to be thumbed.  And it is felicitous to be pricked, to be nipped in the mouth.   If the mouth closes, there is an opening in the maple.  I'd like to fall inside a tree and deteriorate with the seasons.  By winter, come and breathe into me.