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OBJECT OF NATURE
“If you go––one by one.” “I don’t have any.” Groundlings do not go to theater to train stations to organic farms to space to my space to bed to oil to grit to slip to land to pollen, but if you’re lucky you’ll see them collect. Fungus. The harm the bottle the taste. Microorganisms fascinate me, don’t step anywhere. Between your toes are poems. Language object. No ghost to swing chains no ghost to guess shutters no ghost no haunt. Fungus grows closest to roots. Cook roots to taste over a fire, you’ll kill the object. Line breaks when nutrients seep. Cooing in corners and hunting for bleats. That’s where I want to be. Ground linger lingering, this is where failed pollen falls. A community. Some taste. Some taste language. Some taste image. Hunt them all and you’ll find you studied which ones not to eat. After all, it’s just theater.
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OBJECT OF NATURE
“How can you not want any?” “Any want?” In a day. The treasure seeking seek the day and not the line. See the ear is heart, it grows and cleans itself. How many jobs are reflexive? Reflux is the cleanser, but someone has to make formula. Elixir, of the oldest form. Send a sonnet. No send a ghazal. Water flows sometimes. Sometimes is a nature. Frankenstein fought for something too. Sometimes no. When does this all occur over passing the fruits or do the fruits pass us–the seasons, think about devouring the cascade painted in an alley. How would you do this? Do it. Stand there and devour. Make a mess, everything can self clean, later.
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OBJECT OF NATURE
“I am so far from you.” From here? “From red.” “None of this,” is truth to say about the lost trust of crumbling, tokens of elimination, perhaps silver nickels times two lay over a familiar face. The American landscape and heavy desert is heavy in the west. Fall by 500. I am so far. Fall by 500 more. Too bad jagged jagged points are just bouncing along with toes. Too bad glacier sees none of this. None of this is truth. Stones weep, hot climate red road. Red jagged. As if mountain tops were bear traps and oversized feet kept stumbling and the sun went down today. How much have you lost? Look out there, red crumbles the same as melting.
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Evan Schnair is a poet and playwright who will complete a MFA in Writing from California College of the Arts in Spring 2009. His writing balances the lines between play and poem resulting in an enactment of voices within poetry. Language and imagination as well as object and nature appear as inquiries within his poems. Evan is working on a poem-as-play collaboration with American Conservatory Theater’s MFA in Acting Program and the piece will be presented in April 2009 at ACT. Evan’s work has also been published in BlazeVox Fall 2008.
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