Paula Koneazny

Chapbook. Poetry, 6″ X 8″, 44 pages
October 2012

Limited, numbered edition of 100 copies
$10 includes shipping in the US
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In a declarative sentence much can come in between:

He had no formal training; aluminum and copper gave him a shudder.
Then one day he stumbled into some driftwood. The next thing he knew he
owned 3 pianos. No longer having to illuminate anything, he experienced
a sense of freedom. He said, “Movement in the exhaust pipes created
this.” She had 10 pallets of metal, each shoulder-high. She always
started with realism, then went abstract, because she fancied herself the
narrative that would adhere. She said, “I was an athlete once.” They both
were dictated to by their materials; not driven nuts, but driven to do
something. Crushed mother-of-pearl, star ruby, sandalwood and camphor
were nothing but art supplies to them.



A misplaced modifier functions as an affirmation or negation:

He nicknamed her Plover, not long ago; she recorded animal oddities as
they passed her by on the loop. At present, she prefers to be known as
Homemaker. Now seminally at home, she answers her Hot Line. And
when he asks politely, she migrates up his torso.



Adverbs can be detected through the senses:

After his departure, she folds anonymously back into the white crowd.
When they wipe off her face, she wails nakedly. She doesn’t see the
magnet. Historically, the scene has been set. It’s a farce in which no one
questions the decency. For to eavesdrop is to latch.