Kristen Orser

Dear consequence,

                                                            When did you swallow the alphabet (?) and what happened?

                        : Pity the mind : Head in an oven : The flowers are dead and there are plurals between you and you.  But me is the one with the diary, a necklace of your baby teeth. 

Lately, everything is like when you look at the sun too long and close your eyes to see stars falling in a thud and a pink, neon glow.  I am not unlike a sea urchin after all.

                                                                                                            This is like an equation: 

                                    Obs. rare = The easiest thing to say is the unsayable thing between us.

            : Yes, I pinched the tomato plant.  I don't know everything about punctuation, but I'm pretty sure those buttercups were like an exclamation point.  Like the consequence of so much wiving—              I don't even remember how to sleep with someone. 

                                    That word was simultaneous!             A symptom of my deep breathing.

It's the apple shouting the secret:  I thought I'd buried the fetus in a cookie tin.  Buried the parrot in the goldfish cemetery.  According to the methods, everything will bloom in a system of symbols and everyone will know what everyone else means just by looking down their throat.

            :  Another equation to trouble the mind with an indefinite remainder:  Remember when the boy with the Blake tattoo left?  There were feathers.  What is the sum of my fresh eye and the bird who is biting its own feathers off?

                                                            (I've never been a bird, but I've been called flippant.)

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