On overpasses. On pieces of scrap-paper, crumpled into people’s hands. On posters, wheat-pasted. In the margins of books. Chanted on street corners. Carved into trees. On the sides of cars. Broadcast via pirate radio. Flyers curled up and stuck randomly in chain-link fences around construction sites. Taped in the stairwell of libraries. Crudely hewn in stone using a newly-invented alphabet. In videos still stored on the mobile phones that still work. Translated from signals in space. In fortune cookies. Written in magic marker on the reverse side of the official story. Spoken into rhizomes. On signs where some of the words or letters have fallen off. In the circle between the mind’s environs and the thing the mind did not know it contained. From the words not inked-over in catalogs or magazines in the doctor’s waiting room. Under the doormat of an empty house, instead of a key. Tattoos. Placards and banners. Letters to the editor. In or over photographs. In paper airplanes, sailed onto the floor of the Senate or stock exchange. In jokes spread by word-of-mouth. In buried scrolls. In between the books in the library (if there are books in the library). In the fossil record. Under your skin.
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June 2021
Kristin Prevallet Author/Editor
I'm a writer & teacher in Lawrence, Kansas who actually believes the scientists. I wrote a book of poems called Of Some Sky that seems to have something to do with all this. |