LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village

Joanna Furhman



We converge under an eyelid,
and he complains he can't see.
Unfortunately, I like it here.
The curator's description
of my ankle turns me on.


The ear confronts the self.

Ear: Did you read today's news?
Self: We cried like infants inside a rattle.
Ear: The music becomes you like a splinter in a tweezer.

When I lowered myself into his words,
my ear was his tongue, the self
was a roller-skating shop clerk hawking
vanishing cream to young nuns.


A woman enters a room carrying two teeth:
one a slab of riotous loss, the other yellow
apology. "I am tired of these derivative choices!"
the window box calls out, "You are like
a stuffed animal, ripped out of its turquoise fur ..."


The face of the woman gluing the billboard up
is the same as my face in it.

Damn art with its two-fisted wings.

Give me a room free of meeting --
a nose that doesn't know who I'm not.

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