Nadia is writing a poem about the fruit streets
of Brooklyn Heights. But it isn’t about oranges
or pineapples or cranberries. Sometimes it’s
about Oneida cutlery and taking out the bins.
Other times it’s about motels in Nebraska or
gum ball machines or a close-up of a woman’s
face. There are references to Canaletto and
obscure outposts selling neckties. There’s a
stanza devoted to a brief history of unicorns. There
are camps and cliques and panic attacks. There is violence
as a form of style. Country kink. Peacock green lipstick.
Bricolage and Guy Debord. An ecological Utopia
with more unicorns and 12th century women poets
from Provence. The phrase taking out the bins becomes
a motif, a mantra, a high femme cum shot. There is
an acclaimed colorist, a blue bouffant, a well-groomed
pet, footnotes about women’s feet. There is silk layered
over stiffened petticoats. There are desirable images and
hidden prices. Loaded bolds. Skins for wallpaper. Polaroids.
An interlude in Zurich with Hugo Ball. A burlesque show.
A series of miscarriages. Gunshots. Chinoiserie. A couplet
where Nadia cuts her hair onto an empty plate and takes
out the bins. In love with headaches and monstrous beauty.
