Excerpts from my "Make Your Prophecy" project

Credits: strangelilgirl

I chose Prophecy #5—something especially appropriate for this type of endeavor, I thought—and decided to create handmade chapbooks.

Credits: strangelilgirl

While that prophecy was the overriding theme, for the contents of each poem I used one of the 10 Golden Rules as inspiration (so there are 10 poems total).

Credits: strangelilgirl

The entire book is saddle-stitched together by hand, and includes an LC-A+ shot on the cover that I felt represented an interesting aspect of Lomo: the photo is of an old jail with a Segway parked in front of it…think “old meets new.” On the back cover are a few Polaroids, as well as halfway through the book.

Credits: strangelilgirl

I also inserted blue vellum between the front cover and the title page—an extra splash of color!

Credits: strangelilgirl

So, without further ado, here are some poems:


have you considered
that it’s more attractive to play the piano
than to twitter?
how a child can plant
her inner voice around the corner,
it might be garbage or lottery tickets
or lying in beds
other than your own

but they all exist
they go with you, everywhere

always in the shape of
trigger fingers,
and unaware of
their own pulling back.

how we

work things out
in the woods,
on buses,
near telephone wires,
hanging our clothes out until we can
picture ourselves neatly within,

and you get hungry but only enough
to touch food
and the best addiction in the world
and everyone turning over
the bottoms of their shoes
looking for the right movement
based on the things they carry with them
what might actually be
a spontaneous pinpoint
of light.


every time another second interrupts me
i become suddenly
or maybe just able
to feel air at its coldest

it is such a burden
having to believe in things
like even numbers,
the inability of day and night
to talk to each other
or the assumption that wind
must be blue

things could use the help
of being more like rectangles
or else
your birthday…

numbers don’t really want to be
on fire
i said one time
to the man baking my cake

all that happened was
i took a giant spoon
and thought
what if i just
stir together
all the hours of the day
and watch them rise
and click


one day, she awoke
and her waist looked like hand grenades
and she couldn’t wait to become someone
who liked noise and fire

her days had been limited somewhere between
a couple meters above the ground
so she made a flip book of giant moving trucks
bursting through unflattering bridges
instead of doing her usual work with flat things,
folded things and things
that make a girl feel disposable

instead of walking down supposed-to streets
she began routinely letting out
little bursts of light on all sides of her
and by all sides she meant
the people that folded hat boxes,
the people that sifted baking powder,
the people made her notice
knees and slugs and interstates,
all of which she became obsessed with
moving her limbs in sync with each one
until she became a million reflections

one day, she fell asleep
having forgot about safety margins
because wearing gloves for her
was no longer a source for heat or color,
she spent her time now
shaking hands in front of globes
and throwing her arms about like burrows of taffy
convincing people that shyness
is a thing for the worms
and that even bugs
at the end of the day
want to lower their arms


you are a student of the Spanish drink called
my hands letting go
you exist by touching things called immediate
skill, oh little amiable guitar playing buttons,
you are nothing like a bird getting rid of fear
you are without real life, that is to say
you spend your days in the realm called
figure it out yourself
the need to beat impressive temperatures
through alchemy and wrist twirling
you are, oh, you are a little bit too close
for me to recognize your getting closer
and so is my hat when i tilt it next
to your eyes and so is my pointing when i
tilt it behind your ear and oh,
how far away i tell myself
the bottoms of things really are
everyone will not only love you but
be weary of anything outside you, oh
you investigator of things equally focused
as they are fled

written by strangelilgirl on 2011-07-15