Marissa Yardley Clifford
[broadcast]
a liminal space of transition
where one is forced to stop and marvel, but not gawk
a space of empowerment
an open space
an accessible space
an intrusive act
you can’t look away
if you are not the deer, then you must be the driver
you feel caught in the floodlights
you’ve been prompted to turn them on
in the shining strip at the back of your credit card
in the reflection on your window at dusk
in the window from the building across from you
in the pink clouds at dawn
in highland park and on the five
you’re naked in the window
but no one on the streets below acknowledges your genitalia
you acknowledge your genitalia
while you’re being fucked
while you’re doing the fucking
you’re on top and you notice it in the glass of the bedside table
on a monitor under the public bathroom sink
in red, or white, or blue
a space where you alone can think
on the 101, of LA’s virtue
a simultaneous intervention occupying screens
of oppression — of intersection
calling up, unpacking, turning on and tuning out
in spaces mundane, arcane
with dramatic dialogue, and without
on the overpass, maybe Jimmy holds it up
Jimmy puts it down
under the awning of the local panaderia
it mixes with the sidewalk gum, the forest floor
thrown in through the window
a pink brick, a plastic door
they’ll pick it up too, not knowing what it’s for