Usually we think of things how they seem. We’re elastic bands though we may seem
like human beings.
I like licking the white plastic torn pure from the top of white yogurt containers—
vanilla. Millions of live bacteria trying to see her
in Manila without color and without eyes
help to maintain my bodily balance.
Looking out from ideas mistaken for eyes for one another
is time: a weird diamond
getting harder and full of emptier,
we are deaf ear tempters clenching diamonds because we come from black holes.
BY ANNA UREÑA
Luka Fisher has been an unofficial patron of the arts for DRYLAND since its inception in 2015. I don’t know how she heard about us back then but I liked the work she sent us and published her short films and multimedia pieces. After that, we were showcasing photographers, filmmakers, performance artists, and poets like Gina Canavan, Kayla Tange, Matthew Kaundart, Chelsea Bayouth, Leila Jarma, and Mike Leisz—artists who were all tracing back to Luka Fisher. After a non-investigation into who she was (I don’t lurk, I’m oldschool like that), it was clear that this would one day require a meet up.
the optimum time
What you think you’re doing?
Peeking through a plank with a five inch-knothole.
Fake ID from three different states.
Sneaking into the old movie house without paying.
Staring at the Old Master and declaring,
I can paint better than this shit.
The prophet buried
in the soil of Eden
to balance the clock
and the globe
My window is adorned with planets.
Waiting is the small orgy
of wet arms and parabola necks.
Someone had to flirt with the errors
we face, when midnight blurs a teary star
from the face of the ancients.
This is the edge of hope
where curtains fall
and follow through with an actor’s murder.
Flexing her biceps again and again until she actually grew a tad woozy from doing so, Pearl nevertheless kept feeling her left arm with her right fingers (and vice versa, of course) over and over, until one day, she skipped through her living room and on into the powder room with its mirror and visual confirmation that if she craved to bulk up and grow strong enough to truly go Cro-Magnon, then she was going to have to become sufficiently buff to be able to club her lover on his fedora-wearing head so he’d drop like a deflated judy-doll, and it would then be okay for Pearl to lose her thick, thick club of oak and drag her lover to the daybed in her duplex— well, in order for Pearl to accomplish all that, she was going to have to polish off even more than her standard fare of four nice bowls of steel-cut oatmeal every morning, an overstuffed hero sandwich near noon, and a sixteen-ounce rare porterhouse with Jujubes come dinnertime.