needs people, needs shadows, needs more ephemerality etc... damn pitas, got to work. What IF...People gathered on the sidewalk, to look up at the sky, or at their neighbor next to them, between an intersection and a parking lot, on the south end of Boston? What if, I parking lot, a billboard, an intersection, and a sidewalk were contained into a single intimate space, a place for gathering, looking, learning? stop motion from Kaitlyn Pietras on Vimeo.
You are in elevator 41463
and you are going down
and you think about what he said
the last time he pulled himself out of you,
how your name slid off his tongue
and onto the peak of your throat
and beaded there, hot, still, throbbing.
You put your hand to your mouth
and you catch yourself behind a man
in a dark suit, his feet shoulder width apart.
You are both going down.
You imagine his body
pieced together, pinned
in the black dark of a box.
The man steps off and you
are alone and going down.
You remember the lentil soup,
dark wood, your mother’s coffee.
Sometimes you think you understand,
but his eyes were half shut
and it was a such short fight.
The doors open and two women step on.
They are talking about their children,
and you see a pit of bodies
light as breadcrumbs beneath a black soil.
The numbers flash above you,
you swallow, loud and thick,
and the three of you are going down.
They stop talking,
and you think about his socks
balled beneath the bed,
the screen door shutting after him,
the feeling of an entire day,
and suddenly you feel bloodless,
the weight of you like a wooden bucket going down.
When you are alone again
you sidle up beside yourself
but you can’t bring yourself to speak
anything but the names of things.
Dirt, cedar, ditch.
You smell a second person in the heat.
You both are going down.
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Think Maria von Trapp, but more than curtains. A project with Anita Chen on reuse, and repurposing, this cocktail dress is made completely from materials found within feet of our homes. Materials, that in a greater sense, are the products and evidence of daily life. The Sites/Specifics: The Home (exterior): textiles from a discarded couch found at Anita's dumpster, a zipper from discarded couch found at Andrew's dumpster. The Home (interior): 3 years of saved drip-coffee filters, washed, and pressed. The Body (Anita Chen): patterns were created from an old t-shirt, stretched and pinned to the body in a single piece. The 2D patterns were revealed as the material was cut away from the body. more pics coming...
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2. 
Slow Death
People doing what needs to be done,
tread their tongues to mouth
the end of a lover’s name.
Empty sound escapes
as if they are screaming
at the bottom of a lake.
Saint John sealed both of my eyes
in the middle of the night,
pistol in his left hand, furious.
Night is for loving or sleeping, he said.
I can do neither so I let him blind me,
drive his fingers into me until I believe
every word he says about the long lengths
of men, that there are no flat surfaces in the dark.
When he leaves I see Mary walking on water.
She carries a magazine in her left hand
and its pages are open to clean faces
performing the functions of divorce,
foreheads split in two from a pale hand
forcing in a stripped screw. The holes
of their ears are hooked to the concrete
and drying up across the floor.
I know now that nothing can be rebuilt.
The ordinary man has to pay for repairs.
Mary holds my hand for longer than usual,
strange, turbulent, not speaking. I ask
if everything is capable of being broken.
This is a fixed disaster, she says.
It is both linear and circular.
You are both circle and line.
Ophelia became the swamp
and I wish to be her crooked body
kicked and torn and beaten.
What a romantic way to be,
fused with dark morning rain
death’s stamp on shining cheeks.
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