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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=541234" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>140 Fragments</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">1-14<br>I could say anything, and you wouldn’t know. <br>There is no one else. <br>Stand me on a chair, and call me Hope.<br>Loving is easy when you breathe God. <br>So many lives: I want to live them all. <br>Everyday with you holds an exquisite unoriginality. <br>Think: rational milk without guile.<br>A macaw squawks in my throat.<br>I’ve pilfered someone else’s passion.<br>He’s singin’ in Swahili & strummin’ a guitar.<br>A jar of ice jade melted. <br>You’re not welcome here. <br>I wish I could feel sincere. <br>The world is flat and I am a garden.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">15-28<br>Sir, addressing the floor in such a manner is inappropriate. <br>Sulk—now there’s a mood in which to sink. <br>Too often I dwell atop a brink of petulance. <br>Come away with me. Be a gazelle. <br>She cried into the night. <br>What is right? <br>She cried into the light.<br>“Do you know what I feel when I pass by a mission? ”<br>She wears red silk scarves and carves birch boxes. <br>To each of 40 faces, he prayed, “I am you.”<br>Ich bin du.<br>What have you been through? <br>Here’s the unwelcome twist of the exhibitionist. <br>Today, we make the same decision again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">29-42<br>Such love is wearisome, a well without a bucket…<br>The rustling is too delicate, too distant…<br>Wonderment is a flesh thing, which crawls out of the cold.<br>Spatial slurs in a sphere of stars: listen.<br>I put chili peppers in sugar cookies.<br>She ignores me, so I chatter to the room.<br>I blame it on the air pressure, playing accordion with my brain cells. <br>I have no competition when it comes to barefoot races in the snow. <br>Nevertheless, I always end up burying dead soldiers. <br>How terrifying to be abandoned. <br>One cannot help but think of snakes. <br>My first wedding: I was the groom.<br>His hair shone like buttercups.<br>We are French, and fried green tomatoes taste like oysters in a rainstorm. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">43-56<br>Truths: all mine smack me in the face. <br>Not every look is a leer; not every smile is a threat.<br>You forget and are forgotten. <br>Drama whirls, a kite in Kill Devil Hills wind. <br>Reading this, you are angry. <br>My teeth are chattering, and I cannot take back the trembling. <br>My mind is cluttered with cotton drifts.<br>It tickles my throat when I try to tease it into voice. <br>We are songs we are planets we are gypsies weaving peace. <br>Meaningless, meaningless, these words are empty; you are empty.<br>Whole empty cups respond; all categories dissolve.<br>You piss, you pass into the ground. <br>Must I let it die, this love? <br>How do you exist in so small a space? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">57-70<br>A mask for every season, death without a reason.<br>The task of treason—not thinking. <br>They go on drinking stinking; we are shrinking out of rational into national.<br>I weep into a bowl of milk.<br>Murky, marginalized, we accept fear, the cost of the lost.<br>I clutch at cluelessness.<br>Mathematics does just this.<br>To be in pain is to be certain; to hear about pain is to be in doubt. <br>Terms of agency and damage: weapon and wound. <br>Life half loses—eventually the pushing stops. <br>Remember to brush your teeth. <br>Look at how I squandor you on the periphery of thought. <br>Once upon a time in Columbia, a woman said a man said her spirit.<br>I’ve been fighting the wrong, the wrong rage; we’re on a different page. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">71-84<br>Until we are all free, no one is free. <br>April: I am not this man. I imagine herself munching on daisies. <br>(He eats cod and schemes in the park.) <br>Birth—wading through weeds, axiomatic, with a natural poverty of force. <br>Concept: writing of you, do I rob you of your voice? <br>Speak now of yourself. I will listen.<br>Stop using me for your erasures. <br>The narrative of my doubt is scattered throughout this consciousness. <br>We give failure the face of a bull’s eye: name the missed target, sin.<br>Which came first: the man, or the fruit in his throat? <br>Androgynous: similar in shape to an avocado.<br>They’re all products if you deconstruct—strain out the cruder forms, which clog the heart.<br>When it breaks, it shatters like inefficient light.<br>Trying to reconstruct speech into sense. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">85-98<br>What does it mean, this writing on the body? <br>Voice got stolen by a violin, larynx now that of a bird. <br>You rely on the storm.<br>Thinking is as thinking does, and what does thinking do? <br>Religion is the consumer.<br>“She is offended. But so charming! ”<br>Stop being counter-intuitive, the crickets, the leaves, beseech love, love.<br>Failure must be an inventor who has lost faith in his hands.<br>You can run off, leave us here treading water; or stay, make some waves of your own.<br>Be angrier than you are. <br>Melt the clocks.<br>Anger without blame, without an anvil, demands cooperation. <br>Are certain emotions lost in the absence of certain sounds? <br>Waiting: a principal of bodily, psychological, and moral tension.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">99-112<br>We are bound to the notions of love and loss. <br>Maintaining peace is a war, but it is a smouldering, internal one—<br>What then, is inner peace? <br>What you gave away—that is yours.<br>“Sometimes I think of him as a friend. Sometimes I think of him as an armed robber.”<br>Sometimes I wish I were a metaphor.<br>Pessimists die young. Join the shrugging daisies.<br>For half a year, I’ve been living in a free form brainstorm. <br> “When I die, I don’t rejoin…I just stop waiting.” <br>He was blank or white or both, a gun or a shovel. <br>We are cardinals, each of us.<br>I, a wench floating when I should not. <br>Forest, may I sit in you a while? <br>Let’s start by soothing the voracious gaping red rush.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">113-126<br>Holy bulbous jittery rock.<br>Power equals time into energy.<br>Displacement: work divided by weight. <br>Now predict the hertz of hurts.<br>Time cannot be told. The ocean listens to what cannot be said.<br>Every hour I call out to you, ambivalent, a glorified pendulum.<br>The secret is swinging: the back and forth convinces you to move forward. <br>Professional loneliness is an irony too far, even for me. <br>Scattering cigarette butts in a bed merging with March.<br>The gulls have been crying, the crows flying, for hours. <br>The sky rusts; lily-white smoke dusts the horizon.<br>You’re locked in a room with nothing but news, listening to blues. <br>The pathway narrows, as thorn become arrows. <br>What do you want from me? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">127-140<br>Post-exilic embodiment closes canon walls. <br>Themes of vanity: kitten spitting rainbow. <br>They fear you more than you do them. <br>Curses flung from the flag of your tongue blow like a blessing from the Himalayas. <br>I have a preference for a lack of style. <br>All groovy yellow plump mess. <br>The heart knows ow—low bow, slow wow.<br>There’s a certain sadness to soft ground. <br>There can be no queen. <br>What I see is not what I mean. <br>Robert the Bruce belonged in a noose.<br>Everyone can rhyme, but who has the time? <br>I like thinking of you thinking of clouds.<br>I have no father or mother, and one day you will understand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Indigo+Hawkins">Indigo Hawkins</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=541234" data-title="140 Fragments de Indigo Hawkins" data-description="1-14
I could say anything, and you wouldn’t know. 
There is no one else. 
Stand me on a chair, and call me Hope.
Loving is easy when you breathe God. 
So many lives: I want to live them all. 
Everyday with you holds an exquisite unoriginality. 
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