i can feel his whimsy but i cannot feel his consciousness; and some poetry

went to the whitespace gallery for a reading the other night, where i heard sabrina orah mark for the first time. in white space, we walked in to an old carriage house with white panels on the brick walls. The art was splashes of color and mood in bends, swirls and curls. it was blah art - arty art, where an explanation is required for apreciation. apparently it was selling well, but i thought it was just playfulness without a depth. i asked a___ which one was her favorite squiggle, then realized i had better be nice because the drunk guy that was talking with us might be the artist. we sat in chairs and relaxed while sabrina orah mark took the stage.

dim the lights, still the music, etc.

Sabrina Orah Mark came after a nonsensical introduction, and I was expecting an evening of more pretension than depth. I was surprised to experience the opposite - more depth than pretension - in the poetry, which I enjoyed immensely.

the poetry was whimsical and solid. it was the kind of poetry you could read to a child to make them laugh and read to a grandmother to make her nod and try not to weep at what it means to "b". good stuff. i picked up a copy of "the babies" and can recommend you do the same if you're into surreal prose poetry. if there was a motto to take away from all this stuff she read it would be her own favorite fortune cookie: "whatever doesn't kill you makes you funnier."



(whitespace)