Measure for Measure, Orientation 2016

At What Point Does The House Become The Museum?

The unnecessary way
Back home, pearled and humid nights
On the longshore
Back to beaded string of houses with yellow hare’s
eyes snapped open, pacing the
Length of olympic-sized kitchens
The question about why i don’t call any more
Exact verbs too much for my smoke-heavy mouth
Listen: the sand has always been here
Pressed into our hairlines
Eyes stretched wide & sun-fasted
Lord and savior bless this mattress
Filmy with ocean-dry
The knee-cap sized medusas
Evaporating under the sun as you
In your borrowed bathing suit
Shovel the coastline into open graves and palaces

— Eleonor Botoman



Not knowing myself : I can know what occupies me, at least : which tenants : and their character : and how : and what shape : and what crevices : and what negative space : and what blood is left blue : dark : and unsucked : and what tissue : supple : and pulsing:

(cracked and poured : out : it all spills : unboiled yolk : paper towels and clorox : for the kitchen tiles : shaking you : awake : and your density : and my sweat : and your sweat : and my weightlessness)

And blame not myself : if I do not know you : and blame not your tissue : nor your own : strange tenants : but the strangeness of knowing : and the distance from strangeness : to knowing : and our weak legs : and our appointments.

— Lena Rubin

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