Chris Tysh was born in Paris, France and holds an M.A. in American
Literature from the University of Paris (Sorbonne). She currently teaches
creative writing and women's studies at Wayne State University in Detroit.
She has published six books of poetry, the most recent being Continuity
Girl (United Artists Books, 2000) and Cleavage (Roof Books, 2004). Her
latest project is a screenplay based on the work of Georges Bataille.
Not exactly burning, the room she slept in
suggested tears as if only a few seconds ago
there had been someone, stepping in from the street
about to extinguish his cigarette, maybe reach
down into her old wicker trunk of opulent phantasies,
a red light impossible to photograph. Look this way,
please. Better move the cat and drop the pretense.
Coffee stains color a silverprint commissioned by absence.
You know the unsorted bric a brac of pet owners,
early school morning light in mesh with same. She reshoots it,
down to the last space between chair and table. Pale enough
to summon a taxi, then slip the telling. It would always
derange, a narrow angle of blame.
In One Hour
It will be settled. I could agree
you have lost all sense of proportion.
Such a blur that even told you remain
in the dark. They say application of speed
hardens muscle, white froth recognition
that objects appear more desirable
in the distance. And vice versa. Such fellow-
travelers. Keeping close to phantom mountains
you walk as if in a dream, recognizing in a flash
that sudden arc of light. Did you know we screamed
just before passing go? All sorts of bends grace
the tunnel like a motor gunned to death.
His chances ruined in advance, a man
calls for light to come around and climb the set,
the one with heart-shaped peaks. I'll say nothing
about the way you look into the night.
I who am no one.
- Kathy Acker
Turned on itself the body politic gives way to symptoms.
Sumptuary laws hang on a single shred of evidence.
Found frigid in his dream about dissection.
I knew it once from the awry prelude.
Each novel savages its audience in advance.
Like a tonal syncope or tomb we walk over
citing the convention of denial. An imbecile in moonlight.
You recoup the circuit in mock concession to desiring machines.
Get up and go as if force relations equal red carnation.
Pink facade or whore older than it makes out under the boardwalk.
if you were a girl
hot to trot in a tux of possibilities
one's rice dream raises a sweat
papersack she clasps on the empty stairs
taken by a hunger around his eyes
no blood orange no hunter sausage
will assuage the terrible carnal fan
fair trading or obsolete murder in a spin
cycle where the surgeon's hand fades to white
stalls reflected in the butcher knife this dumb reversal
wipes the floor uneven to begin with, wrings out the whole
from male to female, limp from ether
a pure rag in the gutter of want
Back to Front.