her focus on,
She tantrums down the abridged halls,
Escaping grasps and clamps of overloaded lockers.
Detangling thought number three of a hundred,
she shovels a large scoop of "Birthday Cake Remix"
slow-churned ice cream into the mix of her
She cannot think straight.
Intangible letters of the alphabet,
unable to make phonetics,
transfer experience to memory to sappy word form.
Her wavy hair, growing robust and frizzy
as she twirls and twirls with unrealistic intentions
of fixing herself to a hydrant-
understanding Duchamp's internal method of creating
Misplacement of structural form minus
institutional definition of art equals
final project for Intro. to Visual Experience class.
She will settle with the idea of a 36-motion projection
of a stranger picking their nose.
This is art:
A simple movement,
A small detector for human inactivity.
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This Poems Story
Writing exists, and I am fixed. This poem is part of a larger collection of poems I'm currently working on, which showcases what it feels like to be an undergraduate entangled in city life. I am studying creative writing at Hunter College, with confessional prose always pushing me forward.