oh woman of Detroit noise and Drakian tendencies!
how can I ever review your books when they view me reversely
and strike chords I wasn't sure I possessed:
the unspeakable hunger for resisting the existential dredge
that lays its amorphous body across all:
the car dripping with rain outside Roberto's house,
the lucky I counted myself with to speak with you about our
lives in a quiet car, and afterward laughing with Soham
about the strange questions we passed around:
the surreality of giving you my underlined Cioran
in a bustling H&M, and the gift of a turkey wrap
from you knowing I was running around
and probably over-coffeed -
oh woman of premonition and kin,
who wrote dreams years before I thought
to dream them: the pink chap I always return to.
And the gift of reading next to your beautiful bookshelf
and the night emanating before with shit talking
and literary looming and chicken farming and pizza.
oh woman of darkness who heart breaks
but gives life and certainly runs with her woes,
but the running never ceases, oh woman
living to her name, surpassing her name,
that vitality.
Unknown Pleasures - poetry by Anna Vitale
A mixture of darks & lights in a cold wash cycle. True stories and true stories posing as fiction. Hope they don't bleed together and then shrink.
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