Kristine Sloan: Special Feature
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As always, I’m holding up a mirror to the semi-urges
of demagogues who are chasing my image into whimpering
overexposure, but I guess the endless geometries
of user experience are to be expected when
you walk the fine line between documentation
and staring contest.
Every man with a hand has mannequin intent.
Every hand knows pulse code modulation
is a form ofgardening in which someone decides
I’m a flower and the garden is a metaphor
for a must-have blank slate. An underlying rose
pretends essence, but neither of us are the
antelapsarian crapshoots that we want to be.
I’m sipping on an Afghanistani Whore as I listen
for the neurotic fumble of a photographer’s flash
capturing the contorted portraiture of a body
worth living. I never wanted to be
full of young hope, but I do want to be
the last one standing.
You should know your cut-and-paste one-liners
call for a body count. How many times have I
and others fallen for those pineapple upside down
handcuffs? I know what you’re thinking,
that I’m a terrible liar, and it’s true, I’m full
of the self-serving shutter divine, the matchstick
needed to jumpstart your intercellular matrix.
Let me touch you. Let me keep you
in the line of fire. Here it comes:
does that feel better?
Kristine Sloan is a self-identified queer brown femme from Baltimore, Maryland. She's currently an MFA candidate at the University of Wyoming. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Margins, TINGE, Reservoir, and smoking glue gun.