Sara Wainscott

Farmhouse

Several farmhouses. Below you will find the entered data, tough and fair and bipartisan. A drone rides the air like a hopeless liar, people stand down there, grassy hills open around them, being born. People inside their bodies became part of an argument about bodies. A house has a body, proportions, dimensions, pockets, elbows, favorite mugs. Enormous potential for civil liability and the torment of delay. The best thing for everyone concerned would be punishment. Unpunished and uncashed, the grasses wash over themselves endless with being grass. 

Beef, grass fed

Pop songs combined with increasing levels of scientific diets and small-scale slaughter can mean that food again tastes like food last tasted in childhood. When I want people to do what I want, I make it simple for them, plain as linens on a line. A cow is an intentional creature, a purposeful being. Not that I have seen a cow in years. I have seen a cow and therefore I can see one now. Contained by thought, the cloud I am.  Above the crisscrossed countryside, a thin bar of fog absorbs into the air without evaporating, abolished or restored. 

Children, extrauterine

A shelf filled with poor little things, poor little things, poodles and peasants and onions and eggshells and blueberries. Light the color of a sand dollar no longer occupies your room, your room is otherwise occupied. I am studying how a puddle can be a weapon of resistance, forced outward by feet as muddy splashes. Are you an intentional creature? The morning is cloudy, the forlorn milky underworld pricked through by drizzle. Delete my messages. I hate to picture my thoughts trapped inside any other mind.

Power

Going back in time is not an option for most people. To be a person you should track your feelings with an app. I need to feel until I’m clean of heart, clean and far over the whaleback heights drawn blueless in the clouds. Power can be subjective, a chandelier has been swinging, butterflies slash the air with the wings they have, making do. Inwardly, inaudibly, time moves the vegetation. I step out into the night’s dense, cricketing thicket. The night clouds seem soaked in different darknesses, wine or rock mines, they seem tired of walking and falling and walking and falling. Where one cloud used to be a hole appears, another cloud like a prophet takes its place formal and diaphanous inside a quiet music a ridiculous hat. 

Lecture

Let’s hear it for the clouds! they fill my blank speech bubbles they let me talk all over them. Don’t worry your friends don’t listen to anything I say. Numbly, dumbly, the clouds listen, sheep-shaped sometimes scudding sometimes vanilla pudding in a cut-glass cup. 

The world will round me up: every minute it makes its rounds. The clouds are the balloon shapes I twist to make my point. One is a huge green dildo and one is a pickle.