Bobbi Lurie

Wanting more. Taking self through thread and needle. Stitching and piercing the material. Attempting to bind what fell apart. Patches of light, bright and uneven. A quilt believing only in warmth. Beneath the coverlet, my limp hand draped over it. Frayed hem losing stitches, dangling buttons, the red of the thread trembles yet true is the hue.

I write for no reason. It’s bound to happen. There are no weapons against it nor are there any readers. The speaker is me, a joke who pokes around with words. The most powerful weapon is indignation. The most powerful weapon is indifference. It does not produce happiness. Professors and their odd relationships. Women who never go to school must examine this in depth. But the questions have no end. Obsessions provide desired amounts of distraction. Lack is not part of desire. Multiplying exponentially the unhappiness people bring to one another. Multiplying judgments. Multiplying lack of love. I want to open a delivery service which brings kindness. I’d be a courier if I could.

Exhausted. A list of rocks like thoughts which do not dwindle. How much smaller is seeing from this narrow plot. Some obey the gods. Some shake fists against the sky. Shriveled vine-stocks heave a sigh. The planter of poems knows. Those who seek praise. Those whose labors are in vain. Shake your head again and groan. So stingy with the greedy and the already known. No way to eke a living. Sweat of our brow is the need to keep living. Grind down. Iron plough. Green fields gleaming corn. Ethanol. For all my children who were never born: I saved you from the ravages of mortals. I lowered a golden rope to save you from monstrous beasts. The scrawniest creatures dance to the atoms of illusion. I am proof of that.

Bobbi Lurie's work, in various media, can be found in issues #8, #9, #10, #11 and #12 of Otoliths.

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