~ after “Not I: Throwing Voices” exhibit, LACMA, 2021
Or a misalignment of voice and body.
Some folks get paid
not to let you in. While my lips
won’t move having mastered the virus
speaking through hidden
identities. The artist
with various hats on inside a bubbly
tower reduced to marbles in the
mouth. It’s a dimensional bridge
and I am crossing it.
Super woody sneeze
with lip zipped!
I smell leather and cowboy boots.
Red trim transmitting ire inside
a deep-seeded ear. My crying bust
of a child. You can fear it.
You can dead hare and a falcon in the niche.
I’ve got my fingers carved into pinewood
with gems around the neck—my
I am not your doll.
More like neighborhood devil
or court jester. Friendly box
with the sound of its own making.
Relax, we don’t want
what you have, Pygmalion. If you cross
that line, you won’t be heard.
The museum guard has fallen asleep.
When I listen to my voice
lately, it feels like
it belongs to the not me anymore.