From The Alice Series
inside the room pockmarked with words.
alice in a three-dimensional page, or a very thick book.
a slick bookmark, repeated metaphor, idée fixe.
a ringing silence.
and yesterday things went on just as usual, alice mused.
she had never been so small before.
she had never been objectified by typography.
at the time it all seemed quite natural.
this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people.
alice had to find a way of reading that symmetry intact.
time ran behind her, playing house.
there ought to be a book written about me, alice countered.
something interesting is sure to happen
whenever i eat or drink anything.
beware, sweet words.
i'm coming to devour you.
[alice has a little fun]
back from the movies, alice turned manipulative.
a relationship without pain is a relationship not worth having, she reasoned.
she clacked at the typewriter.
i am speaking to her with my fingers, she said.
all inanimates are female.
he burst out laughing. she did not.
they entered the quiet world.
alice hated repeat lessons:
play defined widely is not play at all.
she read his skin.
yes, i'm not an observant person, she conceded.
alice reached catatonia.
it would be easier to write a novel
if i had a plot, she mused.
this was a death joke — the first of many.