[The winter eats red dots from the installation guide,
cut into hills behind the grazing beasts.
[The sky is cut out until they
take anyone, including they circles. They cut away the rocks.] Medicine woman. Hole punched, paper dots guide and punch and stiletto holes and angel hair century. Cut.
I hit my chin across the dream of a monkey bar, my neck pushes my eyes into the sky. It's green before light of countless, fuzzy edges.
Pink, rabbit-shaped collapsible balloon floats above ground., a cloud passively pink , also toy hammer balloons in the breeze, kid stars flimsy in the a collapsible gust of wind. worry dollars are relaxed in the cells and thunder peels out from behind a shattered pile of optical illusions - diagonal feed lines of helium horizontally shadow created glass. A lavender float of symbols in a leaf of heated pupil, the boiled water passing chamomile tea flowers the leaves unfold in the glare of sunlight, as I watch through the teacups, I see leaf, pathways in the leaf lead me out in different directions.
If that apartment complex of teeth became a row of infinite cellular teacups they will never know.They’ll teach each other! I hear this Looping somewhere in the landscape, feels infinite,vast in a cake suit– ghastly dessert, the middle of the dessert has ingested me, into an old, electronics warehouse, turned me installation art out of pink cake frosting, then they dress me up in tea cups and doily's, where lavender lines the surface of the dense, orange earth. I become infinite,in vast love, the most pure installation of infinite love.
The last blister of thought calling home, via cell socks and shoes. I sit in a cell of lab equipment, on chains, hanging by my broken roots,
drying up. A peaceful smile; large and gentle as a cloth sun,passing over the strawberry dessert floor. A smile lingers,fuses, curls with me,
a threading of vineyard by some kind of strong
grasp. A part of me falls,drifts in a feather, to the floor of the barn, into the hay.
( V. ) “Bunny suit! Where are you going? Damn it!”
I turn. I turn into grass. I turn. I look from inside, I turn. I turn into mail.
I am shouting at my pink shortcake suit running into eatable fog. Behind the now, sitting down to set his hat where I was standing are giant armfuls of eatable fog between the universe underneath.
Time/laugh if only it could move/face. I watch as the pink suit pulls wax hair out of the costume, and then yellow streaks pass my eyes, running, runners.
Figure eights on a run through the yellow woods. I am mail.
“Mom!" On the toes of 5he pink wuit, a dream of a VHS boy, a video tape yelling.
(Subtitles read he is going in the barn, he’ll be back in an hour for dinner and Mom reads okay.)
The young VHS tape plays the bunny suit running past me. I am mail in a mail box. The suit is stitching along the dirt road to the wood shed, warped sky gets tangled into the suits pink wake.
(I feel the mail box open
the rusted hinge
I am the
stack of letters
In his bunny mits.
Pink bunny shortcake pours all over the bend in the road. I see the suit from inside of his hands. The mits lift a barbed wire fence, lift me, and the suit climbs through the opening,
catching pink fuzz on barbed wire.
Dripping frosting off the shoulder-blades of the suit to my envelope tongue, I taste a little piece.
Hay stretched in years of Dollar, Five-dollar, Twenty five dollar, and Fifty dollar trees.
There, bunny crosses the giant bleached sun, a pink blur, jumping through forget-me notes, a smothered blur of pink paintings across the handwritten letters of those forgotten. The suit, and every single willow tree is becoming a fractal; a right angle view from the mail tossed into the branches
connects me: singing, waltzing, deep pink, fractal.
The farm edge
is entering property fangs, sitting moist on
his mothers house,
in my bunny suit.
Remote, I am waiting at the stage of a Mandelbrot, zoomed always to the same position, in the warped pink of the bunny, and the willow branches like marbled paperwork.
Hidden in repeated shapes of fiber, hanging near the notches of a few hundred ladders, all different types of ladders submerged in hay bale after hay bale, a rusted edge of barbed wire pokes through, and the gust of the bunny suit spiraling willow sends me, and all the mail into the loft.
As the bunny presses up the ladder, letters fall through the rungs, some of my mind. I am frustrated with this suit. This bunny just won't hear the music.
I'm History's hidin' spot, his play house; and the long shadows trail, track, seek, hunt, pursue, reaching for the pink neck, all fuzzy, and caught with sticks, and hay, dirtyin' up the damn suit!
Whispers are built up out of a distinct grim I had planned for, the shaking hay from the rungs while the bunny ascends, I see the ears all marbled paper in a willow of the Mandelbrot corner. These are some indentations on the stage, these are all very inevitably repeated shapes I see lying on the floor next to me.
There, I sit in the Mandelbrot: a pile of scythes, codes, a wood saw, blood, a set of steak knives. My head aches. Eyes enter my hidden place, through the pile of scythes, layers of mutation, blood. Hay sticks to the knives in little clumps. Knives lunging, vaulted from the Mandelbrot, in the shortcake look on the bunny mask. I smell the suit
as tools follow
to the dust of the wood flooring
to the willow, and back.
For a moment, there is a coat of paint
White warped to red,
marbled paperwork barn in yellow blankets.
The pink suit
and I start wrestling
A VHS video, young boy laughing at the screen.,
fingers that cross the background.
White and marbled red, white and marbled red,
White and marbled red (…)
I walk out of the VHS video,
The wax melts the screen,
( the TV goes out)
And put on the sidewalk next to a fedora hat.
I enter some animal Through the back of his head,
absorbing my memory into theirs.
Painted clocks surround me,
armfuls of 8×4 canvases wrap a room ( like blankets,)
moving the old days back, until the old days are cut outs and clippings from the newspaper, and the newspaper covers the wall of the room like wallpapers . I'm like a kid hanging posters all over my room. And I've got my cute bunny suit on, and he said he likes what I've done heres.
Fast computerized Tangles
Makes it like the suit stands behind me
Again. The bunny keeps changing colors.
White and red,
White and red,
White and red,
Switching, the suit keeps switching,
White and red!
WHITE AND RED!
WHITE AND RED
WHITE AND RED
WHITE AND RED
I put the suit back on.
“What are you?"
I cry miniature fog,
I choke on words.
A Lift unbuckles by the postered up wall, twelve hands pull pieces of my examining room closer. In the examining room, I can get to my tools, and with these tools I can get to the nitty gritty.
The fingers of a more gentle hand gathers white fog across the wallpaper and down, into a glass jar. These white fogs are the left over paints from a variety of past events in my suit, a generous historically based data, created for the purposes of mediating a costume, and its owner.
My naked staff enter, preparing a closure in the walls, because that is what seems to be the problem. All the other areas have healed except for one place where the wall seems thick., I undress, thinking this may be the issue, and stagger through the suddenly thick room. Sifting sand out of the particles in the air, the air is too thick and all of us on staff take out our scuba gear as it dawns on me – this is Lexington – her writing on a felt. She had cried all of that snow.
White lights in the scuba gear course through the nightmare, all of the sand grows to the size of snow balls, and the staff takes down the masks.
"This is a three course meal of cotton, girls!" Old, white paint, cotton, snow, and scraps of paper apply to our legs. Little marionette puppets sign at the dotted lines of the applications.
"Cotton exposure for the analysis crew." The puppets say.
An apartment complex that the staff and I build from a collection of shark teeth loads on a corner computer and we select the color mint for the paint, and into the office, larger in image, the apartment complex is filled with love, and stars in the form of water. Boats in the distance are for the staff to lounge on.
A Cottonwood office building is the ship I choose. I've put on a new suit made of windows I found in the TOWN CENTER. I made it look like a smile on me, and my naked staff walk through the office, trying on parts of the room: chairs, tables, its doing its job. Finally a sense of calm is before me, Olympia watches as I eat. She is dressed in a waitresses outfit she hand stitched the first year we were here. I gobble down a handful of vegetables dipped in mushroom tea. I am careful and swift. Still, sitting real still.
The lights are dim, the way I like them. Everything is calming down. At least I’m here, inside, sitting in my house I've been working on . Sitting in an effort.
The lunar Eclipse we all worked on is being viewed through a waterfall. Canteens of my favorite tea are being passed from sub station to substation, on a long robotic arm that the circuit board programs smoother, so that time can fall asleep in its handsome rows, laid back in a complex star bubble bath of oceanic bliss.
clown fish swim in the gaps of the shark tooth apartments -At least thirteen hundred years of marriage.
And she’s watching me hand a full pound of kale into my shovel; into my mouth, into my stomach. Her eyes watch my stomach twitch as I ingest the mushrooms.
Olympia makes me feel like a good manager, she is always so very careful, and delicate with her glances.
The wax, that had melted off the television set earlier, is being scrapped up and used for a big fire the rabbits work hard to start. They have decided to stay with those occupying school boys town: TOWN CENTER. They brush each others hair, and the nurses wander to a hair of the man screaming at the walls. His breath seems to ruin the wallpaper, and they are trying to hand him some tea. Swollen in his hair are the frozen memories he insists on holding. He cowers to the back of my mind, and folds up, in case of an issue. The nurses wander around the houses, handing out tea.
The teacup of infinity generates in my frame of reference as I drift in the steam of the tea. Frozen in a lie of glass for a moment, final clarity emerges.
“Complex: these Clown fish, swimming in the cavity of the Apartments.” i say. Olympia is a half filtered generation – One of my references is this: Crystal cube rotation device stirring the cream teacup in eatable lavender.
Olympia. Can you hear me?
Crystal cube rotation device stirs the Cream teacup in eatable tea. tea. This clear glass box, all the cups, row after row and then me on the corner, perched in a Mandelbrot, a fractal, surrounded by them, lavender submerged, horizon lines of an eight sided scope drifting over, left, right, slow, teacup tipped onto one-dollar idea within ambiguous absorption. Visual lavender pours over my skin, soaks the cloth of the pink suit, turns it, turns my skin to rice paper and melts away into one of the cups.