In:action. Speak up.
Nhã Thuyên, , performance
Speak up, a finger of mine touches a phrase in a book, a fresh smell. Why, I ask the page, and to whom, about what, in which way? I have no significant stories to tell and I don’t record sufferings. Mom complains about me not knowing what to do with my mouth. No, entering the roof of the mouth, there is a treasure chest. But it was cursed.
A woman figure speaks to the walls of a room or walls on the streets of a city somewhere, exposing her inner world in the form of never-ending sentences.
Reading in and into a place.
Reading in and into a language.
Reading in and into a body. Poetry itches.
Poetry thinks.Poetry acts. Poetry performs.
To overcome this itchy phase of writing.
I can’t escape it. It can not escape me. I must let it continue,
