Scene: in back of the closet by Jennifer K Dick

After, or a tissage of, Michelle Noteboom's "Untitled Landscape" & Amanda Deutch's "Scene 7: Amour, Mort, More"

Looky here, he is in the closet eating body hearts. It’s all going in the wrong direction, he is always there in between lanes corridors métro tunnels. Like a falling star. Like fiberglass. Like the gegenschein pinned on the tail of an autumn sky. This is it, why we are here, what we are trying to figure out! You mooncalf. You nitwit overfocused on the body substance, the blurred outline filtering forward from the sepiaed depths of a former century. A shift in the infrastructure, oh-so-subtle, is lookin’ out for, is snapped together, pinned to him. After all, it is the one who has the questions that prowls. Maybe that’ll teach you to, in this image, stop reflecting. Prowl like this for bloody organs, the kinds of activities employed to take tumblers and cylinders apart. But there’s, or there it is. And the fallacy folds inward. Again. We do not yet know his identity, or what he calls himself. You itch to unlock the origami. Madame D doesn’t tell me Courbet caught the origin of the world between a woman’s legs. Find your hands are gloved, the galaxy lulled. 1866 on only his first version, vision. She, yet. Doesn’t trust the métro (too fast) takes the bus instead. Just can the sturm und drang for once. He calls it “L”, toile d’araignée. You wastrel. Origins and mondes, wasted neurotoxins in the biohazard bag stashed by his old suitcases. What did you say? It was a good vintage.