Laurie Price is the author of Going On Like This (Northern Lights International/
Brooklyn series, 1991), Except For Memory (Pantograph Press, 1993), Under the
Sign of the House (Detour, 1998), The Assets (Situations, 2001) and Minim (Faux
Press, 2002). Her work has appeared in numerous print and online journals,
including Arshile, New American Writing, HOW2, readme, theeastvillage, Xcp, ixnay,
Skanky Possum, and most recently in Shampoo and eratio. She's lived in numerous
towns and cities across the US, spending 13 years in San Francisco, four years in
Mexico after receiving a Wallace Alexander Gerbode grant, then returned "home"
to NY for five years, lived a year in Morocco and now lives in Granada, Spain.
The Lights Bulbed Brightly Above Me
An unusual flaw in my life, I expressed
everything, felt shame to transmute
the misinterpreted. Loving the kernel
of the other. Hieroglyphic as death
addresses the personal.
Tapping the prison for the first time listening
for a father. His clean laughter, white shirt.
Around the walls were arranged in a huge
look. That was the time of watching.
Of being watched.
Now the lovers sip their coffees
in shared silence. Each watches
the other. No room at the table
for any remarks crowded as it is
with fully loaded skin and air.
to be in the foreign body as a luxury
of clandestine presence so only in my
apparent absence which is hidden but
shifted from the always there to
sometimes comes, sometimes stays,
sometimes goes alone to the beach
to walk inside the tidal atmosphere
and thick air, blowing sand & seagulls,
attributes of a resting place gaze, gazelles,
and let the words drift or sift as worlds
I'm coming into in a slow repose
to hear the sounds caught in their
throats as birds as language as bent
between the spaces I can imagine
if I keep my mouth closed & just listen
Red carlights fade up the street to write away the sentence as it would go away, attached still to others' lips conscious of subject and context. This kind of negative space, any inscription and the why factor mesmerized by a mental state. I inebriate myself. The reflexive din. Restaurants play German MTV and my doctor has a new plan. To play with ideas has an interesting design but I'd prefer to design the interest. Test the severity from a blind corner crucial to the dogmatic. Hop to where it comes from, so it could go, accumulating details.
Accumulating details the work ahead. Vast staircase in a building with lush interior balconies, its black dome taunting and electric. What sonic precursors floated this music? drill into Chinese spaces struggling to reconcile the shifts that bring us here? What's novel is how the hazy areas point out the ragged weave of situation trust. Friends in dreams dance out from the spirals. E-merge as if the business were commerce and what I'd find there could fortune. An afternoon storied by damp yellow penmanship in the waiting room grid. Clouds pass in a drone of white rhythm, blinding, severe. A stark build of aerial views to bless the grey sky as if lit from behind by their own pale light.
By their own pale light, by whatever means necessary, by their musics spoked around a single note sustained and the endless paragraphs traced with precision from here to there. The thing inside the thing inside. A half-time subscription turns back the clock from imagination. Everybody's trumpeting is perfectly material and as such, bores the narrative to a talkative halt. Years still worth counting counter the overall design. Unlike these epigrams bordering the divined.
Love poem bound by object and flame
when what feels steady and silent
focused on what as what is or not
and paper perimeter of actual space
lifts wind slams shutter door pushes
and though not evident could knit
the soft tissue how you might see
the inside of your thought but ahead
is a vast action of orange and red
and this slow speed to focus vexes
without need of attention or care
it's just there
Back to Front.