Whitney Eden recently graduated from the Evergreen State College, with a Bachelor of Arts. Her poetry has appeared in BlazeVOX. She’ll be pursing a MFA in New York next year and currently lives in Key West, FL.
exploring self in world of objects.
I’m surprised by ethereal ephemeral
touching on day day tax paying
Means abusing end,
So, the compromise.
But then also the void between
buildings and if we get to see thru,
the innate dodging,
groups of 8 or more,
tables with only 1 person,
seeing the same person 3x
in 5 blocks,
speed and its ability to transform
internal space between, never to
get out light of day
dreams of swimming
that man who stares at my
ass while driving by and running
into small talk dispersed by
I read more philosophy here.
Dream/fear isolationist sitting,
can’t get back inside of head when performing,
try socially acceptable touches.
familial has way of chaos
(1+1= 2, but is that really what
you want? we need to find a
drugstore with a certain lotion and
who can forget her shellfish allergy)
so cover ears,
listen to fans,
notice internal rhyme scheme,
notice external gee-faw, gee-faw
at 8th grade level
dream of clean ashtrays,
brand new old typewriters,
fingers tapping at front,
watching with beer and cigarette
that tastes like the sea (truly)
contrasting tall cement structures,
finding self in between and
though alienation came from
it comes from families.
clinging to log.
I see memories in topography.
Destiny flashes across landscape,
internal myopic immediate.
I’ll just do it myself.
Text (be)comes home,
so take all sense,
I think of cats,
think of walking steadily, brisk,
think of stain holes on skirt,
think of the unbearableness of
if patterns break like you wish
or shorter into unlikelihood.
I can now see the tops of buildings and
my relationship inside of them.
Your friend with the white shirt
Love not common,
abstraction of billowy frowns
(people that sit in their rooms all
like a cot or a bed roll)
I see lofts,
so, it just got too real,
thinking rather than doing.
guessing about the space between
(brings lack of guesswork)
I work at those abstractions,
pillowy walls of assumptions,
A little off kilter,
Guess one’s left sticking to
postmodernism or sketching