NEW

a conceptual installation: picture this.

Me. In my lab coat and goggles, standing in the lab and holding a syringe of PCl3 and deuterated water. I plunge the syringe into my vein.

No, no, start again.

Andy Lewis. Elegant, grey eyes and round glasses and ashy brown hair and crinkling brow, all, yes, with ripped jeans and grey sweater, fairly small frame, is Andy. He raises a hand, gestures to you, to the camera, and fade out. Then.... music. The kind we write with orgasmic longing as we stare into the screen and delve harmonic oscillations into our minds, sketching permutations of dandelion wine hungover dreams and aspirin and penicillin tablets blue ethereal the smell of musky ether on your skin, earthy on my sleeves. I do believe, that if I could choose I would choose a cross between us, Andy, you and me, lover, we must see the stars at Big Sur and dream of Kerouac in delirium tremens drinking water from the creek and screaming--kerosene! They're out to get me, they're all--! Oh honor forbids me--but honor be damned--I will tell you just what I think. There is no one in this here planet my dear who could tolerate you--including Andrew--including me--including every leaf that fell from the gingko tree in about four hours give or take--by the bye--but that's neither here nor there.

Andy shuts the door, plays with himself, goes to sleep, and dreams of Ecuador, revisional astronomy, silk handkerchiefs, and a dog called Montmorency. When he awakes, Monty, still in the same suit he'd worn when trashing the conference room wildly that morning and running from the law, sprawls nodding off in the chair, revolver drooping in limp fingers toward the window. Andy lifts his head and Monty trains the gun on him.

"Oy, don't move," says Monty. "I brought you a present."

He pulls the cloth off the cage. Inside is a hare, fluorescent with the genes of a jellyfish, glowing living night-light green. Andy's skewed and horror-stricken face sends Monty into fits of laughter.



old

the colors sigh, pervade the air
draw nearer as he paints them there
clinging to every fold of fabric on her dress
to every crevice of her eyes, her hand upon her breast
lashes drawn down, her brow drawn high,
expanse of mind within her sky
(maybe an-other way around)
he paints a cosmos of profound
and meaningless little phrases
dictated by the lazy ladies
who passed themselves off for a man
named William, Billy, Wystan, Stan.


to be continued? doubtful.

Summmmmmmer draws on, research reclaims a frustrated and burnt-out lab rat. Relationships they puzzle me, drawn out to strange plastic shapes, idiosyncrasies make me irate. Aside from these there is contentment and research to do. I've named the lab computers now:

Morley and June and (mine) is Wheats, and Donald is the powerful one, back upstairs there's William, and Chloris and Drosophila (she's droll not dross). Two still unnamed - that's 2 and 7.