shutters/dead ends/lens/pens

literary and visual shenanigans = a uniquely conspired journey

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shutters/dead ends/lens/pens

In reverse chronological order, Enjoy! Scroll to the bottom and read up if you want to start and review from the beginning.

Chapter 12 call, “No Strings Attached”. ©William Zuback

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Chapter 11 response, “The Pose”.  © William Zuback

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Chapter 11 call, “Aperture.” © David Press

Circles again. Links in a chain wrapped tight around me. Pinning my arms to my sides. My wrists behind me locked. In the circles of those cuffs. My legs secured by 13 coils of rope.

Around my head, a paper mache mask made of paste and dirty fifties. Sealing my mouth and ears. But not my eyes.

They see smoke rings rise and slowly lose their shape and drift. In their place they see freedom in a fiction, motion in a pose.

I tap: a story with the ring on my finger; a tiny dance with my toes.

There is theater in my restrained body. I pose.

Chapter 10 response, “The Stare.” ©David Press

“Back off,” she says. “Show’s over. I’ve had it with you and your tricks. Not gonna stand on the back of your pony with a carrot tied to the end of a stick.”

“Make yourself useful. Count the coins. Stack them in piles and tally the take. Fork over my slice of the pie. Render the fat. I want my taste.”

“Just Go home. Leave me alone. Is this how you get your kicks?” The wick in the wagon crackles. The lick of the lips. The smoke is thick.

Takes off the beard. Flatlines the smile. Stares at her fingers through the glass of her drink. The fix is in.  All mirrors distort.  No one is there. Can’t sleep a wink.

Chapter 10 visual call: We See! We See? ©William Zuback

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Chapter 9, visual response: ©William Zuback

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Chapter 9, literary call: Cheap Tricks ©David Press

“Step right up,” barks the one-eyed Jack, selling magic tricks that promise to turn dimes into dollar bills, a ragged dress into a circus tent, spit into stories. This is The Micro American Travelling Show of Fabrications, Illusions, and Cheap Tricks. Under this tent, we see only what we want to see. We step right up.

With a truncated tail and a tailored trunk, the world’s smallest elephant is a rat, dead and overstuffed. We see what we want to see.  We gape and gasp and give the pickpockets a chance to ply their trade. We step right up. We pay our two bits. We see the world’s smallest elephant. We volunteer to be deceived.

It always begins with peril, but we begin because we have no other choice.

We step right up. We see.

Chapter 8, literary response: Matches ©David Press

I strike a match. The flame is false. We feel nothing as the one-eyed jack picks our pockets. I sneak under your dress. You sneak under a tent. We sneak under the fabric of this Travelling Show of Illusions.

You strike a match. The flame is true. Sometimes from its corner shadows, even a ghetto enchants. Under the tent you strike a match. If you look at me you change me. If I see your face I change you. I strike a match. The trickster in the corner is the one-eyed jack.

The one-eyed jack strikes a match. I see your eyes. The flame is true. It sets off sparks of Fabrications, Illusions, and Tricks. A match sizzles to life. See that story? It flickers. I strike a match. It jumps the rings. The story burns. The tent burns. The fire is true.

You strike a match.

Chapter 8, visual call: Grand Illusion ©William Zuback

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Chapter 7, visual response: House of Cards ©William Zuback

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Chapter 7, literary call: ©David Press

Pick a card, any card, you dare me, and I pick the Jack of Hearts. As I stare at the knave you stuff me, you stuff me up your sleeve. Out from your hat, out from your heart you pull me. I volunteered to be deceived. Seduce me with your arts of misdirection, entrance me with your sleight of hand. Pull a snake out from my hair. I volunteer to be deceived.

Pick me, pick me, pick me from the crowd. Pick me from your deck. Saw me in half, trick me. I volunteer to be deceived. My head is huge in the funhouse mirror. My heart is long and thin. I tell myself that’s how I look. I volunteered to be distorted. I volunteered to be deceived. I stand between the bearded lady and the world’s smallest man. I am the lady with the thinnest heart. I volunteered to be distorted. Seduce me with your sleight of hand. I volunteer to be deceived.

Chapter 6, literary response: ©David Press

These widows and orphans! Let them break your heart,” you say, as you play solitaire in the window where you put them on display. Veiled widows in black, orphans in bright orange flames. From the bottom of your deck, you turn over the knaves of Saint Nick or Sam Walton or any one of 99 gods to play your rescue games.

“Rescue your sympathy,” they say. “We have our own window in the shadows of a narrow winding street where only the terrified can see. It is you who are homeless, you who are alone, you who trespass. You who burn in the bright lights of the avenue. You who are trapped behind the glass. In these phony. Christmas scenes. We are strong enough to call your bluff. We widows and orphans and orphans and widows.” Three deuces and two queens.

Chapter 6, visual call: ©William Zuback

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Chapter 5, visual response: ©William Zuback

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Chapter 5, literary call: ©David Press

Throw the dictionary on the fire! Inside the static nothing makes sense. It is a hard truth. It is make believe. Messages are undelivered. Are you telling me you love me or to go to hell? There is a magic box here. Inside is a demon lover. His voice at first is static. I know. That is my shadow at his feet. Come in. If you can hear me, come in. I can show you how to dodge the roadblocks and searchlights. The static is infinite. My charms grow feeble. These words lose their meanings. The dictionaries burn. Only your soft, sleepy breathing passes through the static.

Chapter 4, literary response: ©David Press

An Eclipse Slowly Ends
Look! A total eclipse of the moon! On nights like this, only your soft, sleepy breathing passes through the static. Here, with me, are such dreams as things are made on.  With you, the things. Bruises, imperfect oceans, travel books of places we promised we would visit, out of tune pianos, rust, overdue bills, funeral parlors, microwave ovens, bones. Everything broken except the eclipse, and your breath, and your white cotton dress with the sun and the deer and the glorious visions embroidered.by Huichol women.

Chapter 4, visual call: Do You Hear Me Now? ©William Zuback

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Chapter 3, visual response: Listen! ©William Zuback

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Chapter 3, literary call: ©David Press

Listen. I need. Listen. I need a fix. Listen swastika crucifix. Listen, I need a fix. Listen. Six shooters. Listen to. Five books. Fiat lux et erat lux. Listen to the story. Red taboo. Listen. Black. Listen to black taboo. I am addicted to taboo. Listen to the story. Through traffic noise cries of guilty hands listen evening news bluster of facts listen to gunfire in the distance listen listen listen through laughter and birdsongs listen to the double thump listen seven billion heartbeats listen to the story.

Chapter 2, literary response: ©David Press

It’s always the landscape, isn’t it?. A fall begins with the landscape. A flight begins with the landscape. Broken bones, torn skin, healing and scars. The landscape cratered by weaponized metaphors. This is what time does to things.

After a night of heavy drinking, we argue about the origin of shapes. Everything began with a circle, you insist. The human egg and the universe. I call you Circe, and you call me Cosmo. We laugh and drink some more. The attraction is almost too painful. Me to you. You to me. We to the holy circus.

The landscape curves and hangs by a thread.

Chapter 2, visual call: Plumb ©William Zuback

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Chapter 1, visual response: Under the Influence ©William Zuback

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Chapter 1, literary call: ©David Press

If I explain until I bleed, will you hold your breath until you understand?

She shut me in the closet. I studied the nap of coats. She locked me in the trunk. I heard a piano sonata. She took away my food. I memorized tastes of citrus. She bound me in the bed. I dreamed of midnight forests. She took away my shoes. I danced a habanera. She left me. She left me. I bled.

I spun my breath.

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