CONFESSIONAL SCI-FI: A PRIMER
winner of poetry prize
chosen by Eric Baus
Confessional Sci-Fi: A Primer bravely crosses the rivers between genres to salvage the unpredictable and essential particulars of lived experience. We haunt the Divine Lorraine Hotel beside a speaker seeking to extract herself from the prefabricated narratives of family and gender. We hover inside an explosive abecedarian sequence. Throughout it all, we witness a dance comprised of sinew and wind, a mind unfettered by familiar architectures.
G. Grocery stores are the refuge of the abandoned. Although the vegetables, despite de-stemming, seem happy. Vegetables find others of their kind and sequester themselves in cardboard boxes, in large stacks on aisle ends, under soft misting technologies that preserve freshness. Florescence never was so cheerful as it is in produce. Not only that, but the carts speak of purpose. Their large emptinesses, slowly filling. The milling about, squeezing, comparing dates, picking-up dropped, snipped coupons: these things, combined, are one definition of hope.