She lives somewhere in the shadow
of a dust dry heart.

like a groaning door,

a jar on an unswept floor
with stones and sunbleached bones

collected in cans on
a Wednesday trip to the coast &

I ain’t seen no buffalo jump
kill sites yet.


AP: Ahasiw returned around 4 in the afternoon with ten logs in the back of my truck. “Have you seen my bag?” Seems he’d left it in some bar the night before. The bag had all the text for his performance. I threw my truck keys back to the gallery volunteer. “Take him to wherever he remembers being last night.” They ran out the door. Ahasiw had actually turned white.

We set up the logs for the show as Ahasiw had specified and turned on the hockey game.

SU: I love this poem, which I believe is by Greg Daniels, it was so evocative and atmospheric that Ahasiw and I wanted to have a strong visual element for it. We chucked around ideas and came up with an animation that had different clickable areas. And I drew the short straw of building it. In Java. Not javascript. Java. Trust me, it was lovely, but you will need to find a very old computer to see it now, and it’s one of the things that didn’t make it into the 21st century. But the poem has, and is still so beautiful…

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