Britta Kallevang


exerpts from Mind


didn't produce a job
what metaphysical pants
do you hope to encompass
intervening with the frame of
air around whatever it is
called center
called is so different than
what strings is
called the system display
choirs of magna and why wouldn't bike
burn into me into my thigh?
oh, to treat this one like that
it blooms
open to you face it like a
mashed face or a piece of
produce punctured to make a face
called a face, a second
mask has only the
amiability of the beneath beneath
fractioned. what it
is called is
face. a name
is a face, a
mask, a pasturized particular


bottomless bit too sweet
a silver line of
circle meet the color aqua
which is that book submerged
and the color produced
stated along the spine
and i wonder
if this is right
to feel the wrong
grass beneath the
kiddie pool didn't just
take sabbatical
it up and died and left its
to shock the ghost out of you
the moment you lift up the lid
of your head to conjoin
brain to star
the night liquid
has nothing but its own
stream of consciousness
is this line too bitter?
you, individual
fear the pedestrian, do you
connect the two
of you, a spine
or let the matter make
knots, building tension
inadvertently addressing the creek
where sidewalk
came home? is it a square
of close-knit plains?
have you


how to sustain
a fish
is wide-creek flow
of the mind
and could be of the heart as well
if that were a close-knit option
is it?
home is
in reflection
which is not virtual relation
but a split hat
smashed on the head
hoping to fit, anyway
i think that's odd
like an individual creek
that addresses itself over and over
again, the pedestrian connection
between the two is a spine
ouch! doesn't that get right to the bone
of the home?
yes, deep inside where most
relatives will never see
the bottom gunk
of the well-guarded well
whose water is supplied by a creek
some pedestrian brand of water
this conversation
the neurons exchange
along the synapses
but how do the parts connect
between the discourse
of this submersed creek
and the sustained earth?


one continuous round of pleasure
where does one fit in here
a mouse and its life
picture it
we are there on the floor
we straighten out the door
we straighten it out
go out, mouse, out
it all comes clear
clears up
sits up and speaks
where we are is where


that is the correct spelling of definition
i see an arena and peopleís heads
like crowds topping out
a bumblebee-usage the fresh sod lawn
has a dark spot for me in its heart for me
silver grass turns wet sooner than most
i see that some occasions makes for me
struggled poetry
today this afternoon
i mean nothing
but it is ok
oh donít let it by you
itís totally ok just made off quickly
a bandit in silver pants
a blade of shot gun
terminated the moment
thank heaven thank heaven


what is the correct spelling of definition
inside the pillow called life
what am i i am a car
i am not i am a book
i have been read
you who have written me
is this possible i thought
self-written script typed
a new fashion
something desert-like
and appropriate for
and i am being written
with cotton balls
by three widow-peaked children
with mad, pale skin
they sing
like they like
my writing


sex? what is it
the latch on a picket fence
very shut
and maintains the assembly
the assembled idiots
the lot
looks like uniformity
of basic need
but youíd rather call it a telepathic circle
to embrace the gaps
enforce their difference
feud for the open spots
and call it a union