[FIG. A] (above text transcription) [good exposure]

[000.01] Inaudible neon.

My room is a small museum of imported dolls. From outside the door the chatter of rubber language can be heard on the registry of mashed together syllables, those wooden teeth and gums. Clenched in my hand is the hair of one I found down the street, hanging limp, lifeless there in my grasp, swinging against the door frame, found abandoned in house number 75. I picture the other dolls wobbling toward us in the low lit shack, they are shaking hands, animated tea cups fill in warm liquid.

My name’s Barbara, nice to meet you.

I seat myself next to them, allowing for their orientation of this kind.

You’ll love it here.

I’m sudden, up onto my roller skates, an obnoxious figure of man dressed in all white clunking my way downstairs. I’m letting them get to know each other, I think. Not the best shoes. I’ll need to remember the shoes next time I go out. Under the stairs I am Prometheus, my liver is being eaten by a fowl bird. Later tonight I will come back to life, for now I am dying. I need to take my medicine, seeing through a shattered glass focal point takes a lot of strain, I’m beginning to “headache.” Eyes start up flashing little beams of light, reflecting from the shatters, barely make out the landing below, get into the bathroom, popping open the box and pushing out five or six pills, I’m shaking. They hardly get to my lips before my tongue juts out and sticks, taping to the cluster of reds, yummy worms of stillness and relief, a wave of calm slopes, where I collapse, my tongue is so long, it gets to the sink, before curling like a fist or a venus fly trap at the end, around the taste and texture, it coils, inching back into my body for ingestion, dissolving.

[000.02] My old head spins different colored yarns into a knotted up ball, that I pull down from its latches in my spinal column and inspect it before me, turning on the sink to warm, and setting the old head in the water to soak. The threads are all of the maps, formed from the experience of the last few days, some of them go as far back as ten years, the darker threads, clumped and knotted beneath the newer colored memories. I let it soak a few minutes, letting my head slump, jaw line touching my shoulder, drool comes off of my lower lip, a string of it touches the t-shirt, pooling there. However, this will only be a blip of a moment, there are only a few possible outcomes regarding memory. I rinse the ball of yarn, and pat dry it with an orange towell, and re-hang it next to the white one with the coffee stain. I re-lodge the tattered ball of random colors back in place, and remember there are only a few outcomes. Possible.

[000.03] There is a rule that I like to keep in this house, and it is regarding the act of playing with my genitals. I should only play with those outside on the train tracks, running dead kitty corner to the entrance of the house. I don’t want the ghosts to see, Plus I should follow my own rule. By playing with myself I stuff my hand into the air directly before me, into the soft purple jelly I’m standing in, and wiggle it gently back and forth. This conversation I am having is ON so loud that the dolls upstairs can probably hear me. I speak so loud. I’ve forgotten to drop off my comforter upstairs. I’m blushing, I begin shivering. Is there a draft in here? I hold my hand up high. I hold it up to you sir, and madam hidden behind you sir. I hold my hand above me head, I hold it high.

glass ghost tunnel 1

In discovering a tree of all black teeth through a tunnel, I find my explorations have only guaranteed copious trappings of the fluids of the free will. From inside of the “free” grows a head of broccoli, cancer infesting where knowing and unknowing have lavished the growth [terra incrementum] by showing its fluids and tinctures. I rest my ear against a ghost who has left behind a case, back in some hotel or another, simply a memory, fogged-up windshield, using hoses and pressurized hunks of climbing ladders in which to excavate out the hidden, (foreign) answer in said hotel. I’ve hit a tripwire of sight, drawing my glowing dark body closer into view of the doctorish, long white mask pouring out on the sand, and golden rings beneath the bed. But, from the clocks that float by, I find there is no time held there, only a single rope of blankets holding me in the tree of my withering knowledge, in a cocoon of cancerous ideas, perhaps then I must spill out into the ocean of bed sheets, perhaps I am bedridden now, forever.

[Fig. AA] (above text transcription)

[000.01] There is a question entangling through yarn colors Orange/red. When will the man in the rollerskates be called on for raising his hand? The yellow yarn thickens, the brain rewiring, there is the sense of the conduits transfering a message to the conductors, the thick warm peach colored threads braid over the yellow, moving swiftly in a dark sludge that surrounds the wires of older thoughts. The headache knot comes out, unentangled over the face, onto the eyebrows and down the cheeks. Clusters of brown, putrid smelling yarn have been in there a long time, stagnating. Bundles of them are unfurling over my face, short circuiting in front of the mirror. My skates far apart. I stare at my armand then down to my erection. The silk pants make a tiny pup tent. I’m staring at my arm, the small glass shards are starting to subside, and melt away. Now, the shards are heated from beneath and dissolving, leaving a residue in the entryway, like smoke.

To talk myself out of this position I am bent into, I softly remind myself that I need to go upstairs now.

The headache pulls down through my body, big bubbles of air changing my chest, down to my hips, blowing up like a balloon. The balloon of air inside me curves down through my legs, through my knees, down into the tissue of my shins, where it stops and swirls around there in my skin. The headache doesn’t hurt when it gets into my shins. Is this a fun house mirror, did I change mirrors? My arm is growing heavy in mid air. It touches something like cement, I see what’s happening, it’s touching the third story ceiling, my fingers digging in through the cement like soft clay into the attic. That’s where the rats live. They see the intruder and hide back.

What the fuck is that, Suzanne? I don’t know, it looks like a spider, kill it!

With what?! With whatever, Bob, get creative!

Well, I … I don’t have anything. Just bite it! She shrieks.

[000.02] I don't think it’s considered very kind to bite into a spider, Honey, nor do I consider it to be a scrumptious snack, definitely not a delicacy, besides, it’s most likely full to the brim with poison, Suzy.

Look, if you gnaw on the outer legs until it gives in, then bite that middle bit very hard It will not poison you. You see the spiders body simply decays when we bite them because our teeph, you know, carry disease.