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Thursday, February 09, 2006


You may instinctively recognize that this is a box. It is a closed, passive box that invites opening. Once you open it, the box will become interactive. I'm not giving you any hints. You'll have to figure it out all by your selves. You've had to do that all of your lives anyway, haven't you? Please leave questions and answers. I want to know what's in this box, if anything. I leave it to you to fill the box and therefore fill me in. Thank you for dropping by!


richard h. said...

A box of boxes within yet another box; all I wanted was someone to love and be loved by in return. At first I didn't care whom or by whom. I had sex with many, love with so few. Male female animal plant rocks decks of cards the planet Saturn -- the box was always full of boxes of myriads of minutia, within yet other boxes of miniscule boxes.

TV light wave-infected boxes, space conundrums within their purview: the idiot box, the wasteland, soon to be the advertising zombie-maker for millions who only wanted someone to love them. There their hearts sucked into the vacuum tubes run thru ionized gases spit out from negatively charged infinity to positively hilarious consumers, buying Rooty Kazooty puppets and Captain Kangaroos, while Winnie the Pooh attempted to crawl from under little golden book covers, stepped on crushed at the corners pages ripped out with ice cream cone stains on the carpeting, the cribs and another buddha-being to color Bambi within the boxes lined with Desitin baby powder.

Boxing rings around four poster beds on fire while I listened at the top of the stairs to the sounds of bitterly bitter bitterzehn-bloodied lips from punching at the same spot, opened cuts on faces, lips pursed for kisses mistaking love for something like jealousy or insecurity. It didn't matter because she left me anyway and my lips healed but my heart still sucked at the sky. Venus not Saturn, without wedding rings, boxing rings, ring around the moon, rainbow eyelash visions through her tears as she pronounced my name carefully kissing our baby with acid lips, our 1 year old baby finding a tab of double barrel sunshine and we took the rest to stay with her, stay within the box we created for her, for ourselves, for the mounting fear that maybe we'd never come back.

All I ever wanted was to love and be loved but that box was not checked on that form. That job application didn't care if I were dead or alive, just so I could do what the man wanted me to do. I wore a box over my head for 27 years, an inner space helmet that kept me shut out of Mars but not Uranus, around which they found rings, dimmer than Saturn's but there. Their telescopes and microcosms gleamed in the public eye, until I took off the box and placed it on a shelf upside down. Whenever I felt the pain of being alone inside her, I collected that feeling, scooping it together like a broken egg on a linoleum floor and put it in the box. Then I forgot it was there and someone found it when I moved from the apartment on Avenue K, where my grandmother died in the next building, while I moved, on acid.

A box of ring-tailed doves appears before a magician. With just looks, he kills them one at a time, rips their heads off and sucks the blood from their still pumping hearts, scooping them into his top hat upside down inside out. They come back to life, bloody little silk scarves scattering around the magician's polished black boots. The necromancer puts a woman in a box of boxes and slides swords into her while screaming obscenities. The audience becomes alarmed but King Neptune appears and closes the curtains. Box turtles crawl out from underneath, take bows while the show goes on. The people in the box seats leave anyway, becoming ill at the sight of the rings of blood on the stage, in the air, around their mouths, from chewing their own arms off, like Filippo Argenti in Dante's Inferno, Canto VIII in case the world forgot the second most popular book in Europe for 700 years.

The wizard unzips his torso, revealing a midget who jumps down and walks out of the theater laughing maniacally. The house lights come on, the audience writhes and moans and leaves unamused, unentertained, undead. All don box skirts, hoop dancers in drag with rings through their highbrow eyebrows, heading for the dance studio to learn the box step, useless in Soweto, as the folkdances there they're doing are ancient beyond civilized reckoning. When teens learned them at Mike Herman's on 16th St. off 6th in the Village, they never dreamed it would end, that feeling in their bodies.

And the Russian 2-step, Serbian medley #2, Hosapiko and Israeli dances, square dancing in a box within another quite full box of people with smiles on their theres, never falling, failing flailing within circles of happy young unthinking dancers, wailing within the dark boxes way in the future, a future so far off it was tiring just waiting for God, waiting for the ridiculous, waiting for Godot, waiting for the rapture, since the dancers wrapped in rapture were already in ecstacy, not exstacy. Ah, they were right: I was crazy, never wondering why only one hand was clapping when I had a whole box of them.

When my second wife was pregnant, I pressed my ear to her tumescent belly and heard my second child's tiny voice within. I sang back, gently touching vibrating my lips wherever my damsel would let me, which was everywhere. I sang azuuuul to my son the same way, in my third wife's body. Only that one word azul. One day, when my son was 8, I asked him if he'd heard me. "No, estupido." That's when I knew he'd find a box for inner space travel, one made of marijuana stalks, not blue skies, not scented air, not rings around Jupiter. His search for someone to love would yield a daemoness, waiting to pounce on his last ounce of mental strength while an earth mother goddess turned and walked out of his life forever.

He would never tell me of inordinate bishops crossing graph boxes on a chessboard while abscissa knights in absentia did the pasa doble by boxing in the opponent's queen, checking the vectors of two rooks and a pawn. I'd learned of natural logarithms that compute themselves over almond-colored natural graph paper origami peace cranes, in unnatural quantum leaps through twigs and seeds. I'd seen white powdered love-children swimming from birth canals in heated Russian pools.

They grow up in sensory deprivation black box technology with indigo brains the size of Mt. Vesuvius. Wrapping there their hair around each other, the home-grown adolescents demonstrate the power of silicon-based semi-conductance by spraying nail filings from the tails of Boeing 747s, in a graph-grid pattern over the skies of Reno. Radioactive barium salts just don't compare, the indigo adolescents maintain. They're there but not all the way there. They'll arrive with the rest of the epigones in the year 2012, when the Mayan calendar comes to a mysterious end. So does the Hebrew and the Chinese. But the midget returns with a blushing bride to end the discussion of The End. Unfortunately, he doesn't succeed, which is redundant, but nobody's perfect. If I were, I wouldn't be the merciful God men take me for.

It's okay if they don't forgive me. Ask Spinoza. Ask Kerouac, he's playing chess with Sartre on Pluto but the really hot championship match is being played between Fisher and Karporov, not on Mercury but in Black Box Canyon, N. Dakota.

Liesl said...

The last time I meddled with a box, a lady called Pandora flew out and boxed my ears, and told me not to lose hope.