Selections from Liz’s Childhood Computer
Liz Vitlin
A reminder to parishioners of the perils of evil:
A rooster was sucked into an empty two gallon jug unharmed.
A sense of guilt fell upon me then.
A silent animal.
A single cell that does not have a nucleus.
A sleeping bag.
❆
I can bring them to repent.
I can do this every weekday.
I can do this three times a week for an hour.
I can do this twice a week for half an hour.
❆
Should I bring a present?
Should I dress up?
Shouldn’t she be able to vote?
Shouted a man with a rifle
as I attempted to walk into the Hitler Youth base.
❆
A herd of sheep got sheared by a tornado.
A horse had walked into the road causing the driver to swerve.
A long time, I think.
A rooster was sucked into an empty two gallon jug unharmed.
A sense of guilt fell upon me then.
A silent animal.
A single cell that does not have a nucleus.
A sleeping bag.
❆
I can bring them to repent.
I can do this every weekday.
I can do this three times a week for an hour.
I can do this twice a week for half an hour.
❆
Should I bring a present?
Should I dress up?
Shouldn’t she be able to vote?
Shouted a man with a rifle
as I attempted to walk into the Hitler Youth base.
❆
A herd of sheep got sheared by a tornado.
A horse had walked into the road causing the driver to swerve.
A long time, I think.
Liz Vitlin (b. 1994, Cleveland) lives and works in Chicago. Her work has been exhibited in the United States and internationally, including solo and duo presentations at Prairie (Chicago, IL), A.D. (NYC, NY), and etta (Düsseldorf, DE). Her work has been reviewed in Hyperallergic, Chicago Artist Writers, and Sixty Inches From Center. She is a founding member of the collaborative art and music project Suicide Moi, and is currently working on her first book of poetry.