JILL BEAUCHESNE_________________________________________________________________________ East village work unit, 1East village work unit, 2East village work unit, 3East village work unit, 4East village work unit, 5The Soldier
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With seamless
disjunctives and punk fragility Jill Beauchesne turns
the intensity up to full-throttle then leaves it that way all the way
through. Every line works with
precision, cornering emotion and forcing it through to the reader’s side of the
page. Jill is aggressive, but also
relentlessly questioning. In smooth,
cool lines like, “Assuming you own the pieces in this room./
Where would you throw your socks?/ Put
your head on the mat. I am
cutting.” she
summons Plath and Edson in
equal measure, capturing senses of both frenzied vulnerability and reckless
play. The irony here has a humanistic
pitch and just as it takes the world in with shock, it also consuls.
--Andrea Baker
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Your
body in honey and ox-breath.
The stomach
does not line up
its melons, cheese,
what comes after
chocolate.
I am dizzy. You are sitting
in the public toilet,
tears on your cheek
and neck. But I could never kiss you.
I hardly want
to. Please, let down that rope.
I want to climb and
become a fly
tiptoeing on your left
hipbone.
We will sit, our lipstick and scars
in front of everyone.
Hold these grapes
and wash them.
Now, take off your
shoes.
Remove anything
sharp
from your dress
pocket.
Sit in this chair,
barefoot
and braid the grapes
into tiny imperceptible
longings.
Think of sex. Think
of a computer
monitor,
a man scrolling a
page with his thumb,
looking for a fast,
dependable fantasy.
Assume you own the
pieces in this room.
Where would you
throw your socks?
Put your head on
the mat. I am cutting.
The guards lean
back against the text-blocks.
Behind me, more
guards,
and no chairs.
I have to sit
to make do,
installation.
Here. Take this flag
and make an
ascot. The red
and cream of it are
worthless.
Outside,
the clocked bus-route.
The
street-rush high note.
Your pencil turns
into sponge,
a free-floating
head. Do you believe in it?
Take it
full-throttle, mid-air—
put your collarbone to
work,
reflecting present, past,
future.
Pretend you are a
weapon, pretend
and turn
windowless. Think
of the freeway, how
you could lick it.
It is always
raining. It is always clean
when you write the last
letters home,
as loudly as
possible. As if you sat on
heaps of furniture,
pressing stamps.
1.
Start with the
lotus-eaters.
The
feet as erogenous.
Sector
yourself. Make distinctions
and body parts. Crack your hemline like a whip
and try not to cry. This is who you are.
2.
Each
knee a full knuckle space.
A
full space for knuckles. No knuckles.
The fingers haven’t
come yet.
3.
Here. Swing, white rocket-fuel
and dagger. You can tell it’s not a woman
by the space between the
thumb and forefinger.
4.
Suddenly the damask
is black. The walls
are more so. Suddenly I have to remember everything
like a calendar. Will you help?
(we
are not close, the small town boy and I)
5.
This is the easy
part. Foot to knee
and shoulder, no pubice or public rocking.
Across the street,
a peep show and flower shop.
6.
His nose was
twitching. The sky, watered-down
fluoride,
his forehead a
swimming caterpillar. If I had affect
I would have moved
more slowly.
les règles
1.
Woman, if you are
blood,
you are also water,
oil, tempura. If you are leg,
you are light and
hardwood floor.
If you are buttock,
you are fissure,
if you are man, this
is some kind of trick.
2.
The
bubble at your mouth and anus.
There are several
choices for flesh. What color
could possibly make this
real? I am limping
to the bathroom,
where you wipe me.
(a
performance piece)
1.
Painter, if you are
more than gull-shapes
I am more than
centerpiece.
I hate the light as
much as you.
I could bend your
collar down,
make a pretty
nostalgia,
an ear at the chest.
Your face pressed
to glass would be different.
My face pressed to
glass would be different.
Breathe louder and
take this rope.
I will wear your
jacket and be metal.
You will
touch. We will have won
the golden egg
sweepstakes. Every
romance under ours.
Slip the rope over
the horn on the ram head.
Slip it some
change. The scents are turning
leather and daffodil,
wretched and strange.
Circle up full,
stop biting your nails. This is what
you wanted to
see. Paint my stomach, all of the
bubbles
and take a fork to
it. Eat up, finish with fruit.
2.
He
is in the room.
He
has paid eight quarters
and he finishes his fruit drink.
The wall
goes up. The shoes,
the g-string, the lights. He
squints,
painted sugar. He
crouches, looking
below the dividers, at his friends in adjoining booths.
He
sees triangles. He sees jeans down
around the ankles.
He
looks up, sees breasts, thinks of minutes and zippers. The wall goes down.