(media res counterpoints)
“Show me someone who doesn’t warrant inspection and I’ll grant you your hormones,” the father says.
“Oh and which sadistic pill is that?” the daughter screams.
“Hey now, knowledge is not the answer, we both know that. Perhaps a little tipsy in the granulated downtime, but that’s all, I can assure you.”
“Um yes, did two. Two pills with one swallow.”
“Have you even been bickering with me? what do your words—uh!” flapping hands.
“I see it as kind of like those days where when the day begins, with a sort of groggy eyesight. The first thing you hear from your mother’s mouth is—hey, woah, where do you expect you’re. Stop, okay—the very first noise you hear is some insect-y reminder from your well-intentioned mother, that the garbage disposal ate your garments. Or even your undergarments, like panties, and she forgot—hey, where.”
“F-you!..and hey, in case you didn’t know, plants have hormones too!” the daughter projects over her shoulder, down and out the staircase.
(out the door with her)
(back to the father, portrait)
“You know, I never dreamt about notebooks or that kind of thing, mainly (melting.horror.). But it’s all working out fine right about now. Really. Not so much as a gaper in the sky tell you the truth,” he pauses, waiting.
“And I keep our kitties full!” from out the view, the mother.
“Well yes darling, you do. Say, what time is it? [to the window] Is it darking outside already? The palms are radiant in this leftover light.. oh, what do you know, there goes our little darkling on her brand new fucking horse. The brindle fucker.”
“Oh dear! What aplomb! What aplomb in this household!”
“In this homehold, darling.”
“What’s that?” closer.
“Homehold. It’s homehold. You know I like homehold,” grudgingly.
Into the frame smiling. “Well okay, mr. wise—[pause] cunt,” she reaches to pinch his nose.
He flinches violently.
wait, please, define that word you just said… yes, define it. what does that word mean to you, and what does it mean—objectively. take your time..now now, just do your best… you’ve been through a lot, and we understand the difficulty of objectivity…, of course—being a subjective, human figure, prone to emotion, to repression, as are we all… okay, that’s okay, why don’t we just move on to the written section. so please, right here on the dotted lines, write out everything you just told me, and anything more you’d like to tell me. please include detail, describe as much as you can… and for all the ‘big’, for lack of a better word, words, please use this sheet for written definitions; both denotation and connotation; just skip a line between each entry; we want to hear what you think, how you think, really. language is our dwelling place, yet so different for everyone. oh and in your account, will you be using the first person perspective?… yes? you can use the third, if you’d rather. hell, the second, if it pleases—no? okay, first it is. thank you very much, and i’m so-so sorry for your loss.
Dead Cupboard Videotapes
1. Filling, chock-full: a head full of clown hair. Tick, tock, and snatch back the pigeon hat. Surprise! Smiling, but still confused. You see the boy running, holding eleven pairs of scissors. So many, one per a gift—oh no! Don’t focus, or laugh at the slip. Piercing and spilling the party with many slits, reddened stomachy bliss. What a robbery, on the way to open presents, a particular kid too orderly to tear the wrappings. Such tearing yields much a mess compared to straight clean slits. Well, got both—wasn’t ever just a normal kid.
2. The morn they left him, he felt like sitting. He sat on the fainting cushion and in the sink with the orange rinds and tea splatter and in the jar made of glass on the opposite side of the room as the chimney. The roof lifted from the walls and in came birds’ purrs which both did and didn’t sympathize and the rain didn’t fall but he imagined it did. He felt a bleeding, tidal shores riding his thighs, thick flowing lateral, clotted hips, stones dropped into his red pond from the level of buttons popping off the lid of a dream, a memory, a wilted coffin flopping melodramatically. He took the key out of the sewing kit and undid the lock in his stomach and spilt decomposed toothbrushes and pillowcases onto the floor, until there was a small pile and he felt sort of empty again. Then he just fashionably laid himself in bed and curled his eyes shut and let fall maybe many tears, each carrying it’s own stinging fetus. He said to himself, I’m not without context. I’m not a dreampop song. I’m not cultivating poisons or essential oils. I smell like rain. Nothing except staring at the cellulite in his cloudy legs could take his mind off them. He sat in the garden shed, and the tiny window let in a light that behaved like a pathway, to be taken toward their skin. He covered himself in a coat of marmalade and went to sleep.
3. You parse the emotional stones (gold, white stockings, void) for an interview (bed: pale, pillow: twisted), yourself in ascension or descension… you can never really tell. Here:
—What what what do you like about the grains of the idea?
—The pulse. And the way small rodents look like mouths beneath the blanket.
—And what do you like about maroon?
—Pistol traps! A gilded tub, fleshy drip. Complete with partner.
—And what about blue?
—The way it spins and spins from the tips of my eyes, dirgeful patches, carnival sky.
—And what about mustard?
—It’s like if two yellow rabbits have children that are frogs together, and live in a porcelain home right near the polyandrion. They speak as if to themselves, in sniffy little tones.
—And what do you like about the blackness of your sockets?
—My socket’s a locket, I was always told. And the other’s filled with time and gloomy powders. Time vomits romantic, and powder covers the cat. We had a small, childlike entity once, and then it wasn’t with us any longer, neither in mother’s hearth nor the horses’ corpses nor the bed in the cupboard. Though its claws weren’t thick, it made sharp lovely movements, and fixed my heart translucent. Needless to say, I went and fell onto a thorn.