Author Archives: Krysia Jopek

burial with rain

[13 dancers] .this morning, the song sparrow’s missing head.. .a delicacy for the coyote’s mouth.. .faded teal feathers hidden by dusty brown crinoline—taken, too.. .you said, let’s drive diagonally through crisscrossed streets.. .toward colors painting the sky-fall twilight— a necessary … Continue reading

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from FLESH: performance art for 13 dancers |unfinished burial

[13 dancers] .the singing sparrow, pregnant belly down, done for singing.. .the husband watching the nest he built out of habit.. .she wasn’t an omen, we wanted to convince ourselves.. .one of us said, we should bury her.. .another said, … Continue reading

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from FLESH: april solambulism

.you shouldn’t read the process notes.. .that was before this doorway.. .pain knew itself but couldn’t abscond affirmations. .no one genuflected properly.. .the singing didn’t have particles.. .the house peeling while we slept staggering.. .the violins moved [things—maybe us] horizontally.. … Continue reading

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.persian square dancing..

[4 dancers, antigone, dora, pluto, wind] .let’s blow this place open.. .let’s sharpen all our charcoal pencils.. .love isn’t your tattoo.. .one of us said, the alphabet soup is getting cold.. .no one here speaks persian.. .the day has gone … Continue reading

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.ii. | .persian duet. [from FLESH: performance art for 13 dancers]

[2 dancers: dora & pluto] .tell the blue birds and catbird that food assistance won’t compensate a new apple tree.. (.it wasn’t your fault..) .the white and pink butterfly bushes and heliotrope— for the swallowtails and monarchs.. .maybe: leave your … Continue reading

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FLESH: performance art for 13 dancers | prolegomenon

[13 dancers: antigone, dora, elizabeth, hafiz, henry, jackson, lily, pluto, question, sam, thom, wind, zebra] prolegomenon * .no more a tradesman of suitcases, you’re tracking pages with bone chips in velvet emerald satchels over your shoulder (dislocated by moonlight).. * … Continue reading

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SEMICOLONS

The garden, a micro-wasteland: cracked ceramic and glass; peat moss gone amok with ice, tangle, and quandary. Mourning doves thread dirges into blackbird noise; the blue jay cry, a semicolon. Let’s pretend to be yellow, he said—the yellow of daffodils; … Continue reading

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confessions of a con-ARTist

It’s true. I’m a con-Artist. I can’t pinpoint on the calendar the day–or on the wind-up clock, the hour this new identity coalesced, grew into its genetic paws. Strangely, I’m not one iota ashamed. I daresay I might be off-the-chart … Continue reading

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DIRGE VI, what was lost [13 dancers]

Unhinged from the ceiling, the gray moth was wind-scatter by Tuesday—then nothing left. Not even a frame for a sentence-shed. Last winter’s bicycle spokes catch a hand. Everyone in a hurry to take the remote—until then. Orphic chords scrambled us … Continue reading

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the spine is now a backwards S:

sinuous, serpentine, spongy, soggy, drowning under water, not serendipitous, not a sinecure with a quick fix, not erect at my unstrung cello, not perpendicular at the untuned piano’s yellowing keys the cat walks across at night emboldened with the power … Continue reading

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