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Sandra Doller

Sandra Doller is the author of several books of poetry and poetry-adjacent things

including Oriflamme, Chora, Man Years, and Leave Your Body Behind, plus a

smattering of collaborations, translations, prose and the in-between: The Yesterday

Project, Sonneteers, and Mystérieuse by Éric Suchère. Doller is the founder of the

international literary journal and independent press of cross-genre arts, 1913 a journal

of forms/1913 Press, where she remains l'éditrice-in-chief, publishing poetry, poetics,

prose, and all else by emerging and established writers. She lives in the USA,

somehow, on the lower left.



Am I specific enough for you. Did you hear me taking care of everything.

Did you notice I already set it out. Fixed it up. Placed each item side by

side in the box with a clean cloth between. Remember to loop the straps

over your wrists so you can carry more. Don’t forget the things I told you

that you didn’t hear didn’t listen didn’t want to know yet. Remember all

the parts in the middle. Forget the end.

At first things were fine. Great even. Some might say wonderful in an

email. Might look up alternatives like magnifique. When she learns how

to say splendid the game is begun. The pink parts got lost under some

furniture. Piles of dusty. Once a friend called and you stared and stared

at it like an open letter. No, a bill. You don’t answer those any more. Not

until the collection comes.

We are in the thick of the steak meat now. And I mean our own. Raw on

the sides but fairly well familiar to the tooth. Stringy sinew and stingy

bone. The velvet cup meat is best enjoyed cold. How do they talk about

flesh and if they had to stop eating it or die we know the answers. They

would build entire systems designed to falsify records and distract with

more visible natural disasters like elementary school or fairgrounds with

nothing but corn cake around the animal. Sweet surprise.

A shooting is a matter of opinion apparently. I’m just saying what you

thought. I had a failure of elimination. It could only be predicted. All the

statistics were on our side. We were so right, so dying.

I can see the other side from here. It’s just a walk across a faulty bridge.

Keep doing what you do well which is bare minimum. You are good at

nothing. And I mean that in the most meaningless way possible. Watch

the hole in the covered part over the ravine. That’s where they decide

future tax credits to pay for all the pillage.

There is nothing to check anymore. I’ve read all the updates and the scroll

just stopped. All caught up here. Nothing new. Got that out there in time.

Piled up the thumbs. Quick a button.

Could do this all day. Did.



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