TAKING TOO MUCH
light made me this way. tired. a snake came out of a tree. where winter was on the branch
the band the bud the hand that turns the skin it sloughed or would sometime though not on high
its speed or strength lay out the banded form her small head holds itself away a dog bites 
my leg a boil appears or appeared already before the bite so that where I was bit arousal was

already there. the form of redness. the name of pink the name of skin. silk bought pinked pre-
perforated along its edge as was one’s arm my flesh pinked full of holes this boil leaves me
grief. was my face like this. always. uneven and pitted. before the camera I make my head
go to the side thinking straight is there. before the pool I make my head go down hand holds me

there my chest goes tight and hot my hair is short and caught in her hand her good hand her 
cuticles I can’t see from this angle though they would be perfect even more under the
amplification of water which makes all things bigger each thing her hand which holds me
under makes me unable to breathe thus hot for the air I can’t get. underneath my ass a prick

goes in my hand an aromatic piece of a plant that got stuck here on this chair or my pants and
then my hand passed over it thus the thorn enters me. kissing the thorn kissing the finger where 
a hole was worn or borne a hole was bored a load comes out. as a child I was often bored 
the yard the day one’s want of some supply of being told. the length of light. whatever’s right.

TAKING TOO MUCH

once I was taken out my body could be arranged into different positions and I wouldn’t know 
how it was put in the position it was in. or rather, I would know, because a certain lucidity
was maintained throughout this period such that I could remember anything I just couldn’t
make a memory mine. the seed of a certain tree is called a button so that it might be pressed

as I guess are my limbs now my head tilted back at a weird angle against the wall and if I moved
it here I am not moving it back. a stick sat on the sill where the sun would land. as a layman
there’s little I can offer in terms of the technical production of rays and their means of reaching
our bodies, or rather of producing this folly. what gets called my body. of course is only nerves

thus rolling around kind of feeling my chest my palms or another’s feeling me there certain 
pressure of course there exist lines meridial lines one presses here producing elsewhere an
association a kind of slip saying a name a word that gets written wrong as it comes out. afraid
I can’t follow quite freely the chain that’s supposedly invoked when I say whatever it is I’m made 

to say. I didn’t will this. the bulk of a leaf’s oil is coaxed as it is crushed between one’s fingers. 
its imposition upon me had a different model. than consent. thus its model is great. not my
enjoyment of what’s rendered romantic such as a rupture but that I’m made in the scene 
into something else outside of wanting or being wanted or in any case such is made my access.

TAKING TOO MUCH

I felt that making a drawing would please me. the lines should be a combination of lighter and
darker shades, I thought, but I could only conceive of a drawing composed of a single shade,
which was dark. I’d seen at the bathhouse last weekend a tattoo on a stranger’s thigh. so the
location of a drawing had more to do with its capacity to impress than did the quality of its lines. 

what makes me into an object. a kind of x instead of an eye. because what’s called a lake is an
estuary its scent differs depending on the time of day. or rather at the same time of day on
different days its scent differs since the distribution of tides in time doesn’t correspond exactly 
to the distribution of days. thus one could live on the ocean but it didn’t mean its edge was seen.

a mouse became emboldened. one corner of the drawing suggests the rest. I was assured that
this writing didn’t have to be smut but given its context and solicitation what could I do. recently
I’d experimented with the thought that perhaps I should try to not write about sex for some time,
after trying for some time to write about sex (after trying not to write about sex for some time.) 

sex became less interesting as a project for writing around when I started having sex that
pleased me. which means it became easier to imagine. so its realization became less charged
with contradiction. so its recounting or anticipation in the form of writing became less urgent. and
so the invitation to do so pleased me because I imagined myself being bored instead of satisfied. 

Willa Smart was born in Idaho and is the author of numerous fantasies, insofar as one can claim to be the author of her own fantasies.