Meagen Crawford

from FLAT

| ON               a notional setting furnished by each pleasant fixture of a

concrete extracted | an attempt to make what can and can not tear a home

and a hand of all which is incalculable animating upon another new stretch |

wild pauses and an answer a universally recognized gesture moving within

a symbol | our comfort address on the wilted hour | exactly how one relates to

the daylessness we all have ticket to that

| ON             a thickness of compilations to be alert and warping murky and again

pale a kind of necessary as self documentation is hopping in retrospect an arc in

bloom cycles of blank formations unsituated states of at the screen together |

all is made apparent to be involved with everyones |

an outlet is a vacuous necessity it demands an isolation be absolved into a

suspension | each volume no enclosure no simple barrier appearing gone old


| ON             a press and the lost is composed of temporal and significant stock

compacted and starchy attempting to reconcile | a press and my armies come in from

the wet grasses of touch wars | I have difficulty participating with concrete clears that

accumulate and spell out a vision of an unknown and fellow citizen | of knocking on an

entry with alarming give candle lighting me against the whole wall of lights

| OFF |          I cant keep picking up my distraction | I dismantle the design the feel

melts I slap upon the pool of it | I cant keep picking up my distraction it enters with

presence as if the center of a private memory fenced in | all of the fences refresh around it

a sentient haze of what composes alerts I will assert myself in the linings of |

I cant keep picking up my distraction | it slips every time into an in hand collective

posturing an anxiety about the omitted |

I cant keep picking up my distraction it is half broken | it crossed over itself too many

times trying to bring me to myself | it is pooled up with iridescent and flimsy qualities

| ON             the dismantled is feeding neglected area as a logged

citizenship bring flagging statements | turn a flock on the lawn that never dies |

forms hoot and gather slapping hands and take all of the room | allow their shapes to

be stated expanses lawns that never die | the atmosphere up for grabs

pulling together like a suspension bridge | all countless coverings continue to exist

among the uneven spaces | all this glossy | I ask you questions throughout the day

and I make statements that in good trust you respond to

| To lose the possibility of recognizing 2 similar objects, 2 colors, 2 laces, 2 hats 2 forms
 whatsoever. To reach the impossibility of sufficient visual memory, to transfer from
one like object to another the memory imprint. | Marcel Duchamp

| OFF |

which sways outwardly in frantic participants in the quickening

exactitude of transplanted light the ownership of being noticed | settling it sounds like a

pebble thrown at the window as a calling after |

the colors always staying the same the material is foreign | persons with their laps as

still as an artifact of wind on green manipulate the whole directional system of areas a

whole setting | if you appear and if you notice


MEAGEN CRAWFORD  lives in Nashville where she co-edits ‘Pider and paints interpretations of her feelings.