Funhouses On your walk, there comes the banal spur: discard propped in a back alley, a mirror cracked, flecked with rainwater. Always with trash, a frisson of abandonment. Lines jag, web out, sever your upper body from the waist, explode your chest, a hole you could drive a football through, your tectonic torso sliding— and immediately it's Death Becomes Her, Goldie, Meryl, Bruce, in a manic farce of light. The temptation always of distortion: to elevate levity. But there’s a point there, too, circled, side-eye of the bull, where the object, blunt, sharp, or soft like bone encased in flesh, smacked the glass—a mere slip of the wrist, no doubt, part of the scene, so to speak. What violations may obtain in another’s funhouse. So the rainwater begins to stream, down your forehead, your cheeks, like windowpane rivulets shadowed In Cold Blood onto Robert Blake’s face. Always the hyperbole of tears that cannot otherwise be released. And before long you return home to find in every mirror, suspiciously intact, a body reflected naked and whole: your heart and the gentle rain against the rooftop: all that is weird, warm, wounded and wonderful.
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That was some good stuff and it maintained so well all the way through. Full of mysteries we cannot answer.
As always your work catches me by the throat.