Sarah Natalie Webster

I’S I’S I all vision, our vision everything that’s envisioned all tunneled through the narrow shaft of I I, I, I, pierced like carousel horses our thoughts ride around its pole I, I, I, chipped, wild-mouthed immaculate I I the moon skates silver on train tracks beside us and the sun skims the water to land at our feet we are Narcissus seeing only ourselves in all surface, reflectively we are Pokemon pronouncing only our name in all conversations, unceasingly III the human figure is also an i, straight shank and nodding dot of grey matter, matter, and does it“Sarah Natalie Webster”

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Sarah Natalie Webster

Still Life Your poetry is an empty room. Your poetry is portrait photography against a stark white background. Your poetry is excessively ergonomic android software. Your poetry is literary late twentieth century male American prose style. Your poetry, so simple! So aesthetic! So abstract! So symbolic! Your poetry is civilized. Your poetry is a slide show of exotic foreign horrors presented with dispassionate academic distance on an outsized projection screen in a brand new auditorium with cushioned seats and gum-less, graffiti-less Formica tray tables. In your poetry you’ve trimmed the crusts. You’ve sieved the silt. You’ve filtered the wheat, (and“Sarah Natalie Webster”

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