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Curtains are drawn, literally, to conceal a black and white repartee of what could otherwise
be material for charades when putting them on mute, a portable theatre built for two. Though
there is only so much makeup and body to fight with silence, keep us interested unless placing
a laugh on repeat, the sound of it pulling downward to the floor. So I lie down to see if its
true, if the seam between laugh and image has anything to do with getting to the bottom
of repetition. There is nothing down there but a darkness gaining popularity the more the back
of a head presses against it or what velcro could possibly sound like if it gave up any attachment
to understand or refusing to count all that sheep walking across a stage.
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Refrain it here: when distance is subsumed into its own icon, as if in mid-air an object
gaining volume, making the wooden desk another echo of an online forest I can barely
conceive of. Its not that I don't like nature, but that its not convincing enough to
try and touch. Does it become another chat-room to log on to, making birds more
conceptual and flat than a forest has ever been, if their chirping presses against itself
so that I can't hear it.
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The ampersand is an erogenous thing, a body with one arm ceaselessly touching itself
under the table. Or a telephone cord loosening between two mouths, snapping a morpheme
in half, how a relation-ship can also go divided and never sustain. At first, a knot was tied.
At second, it sailed away. What if I told you we were sailors this whole time, perusing the
water like googling out of habit, latching onto the many options of how to live when its
all built out of air. I can feel you googling me, she said, don't stop.
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